Silver-Eyed
by Cryptika
Summary: A powerful rogue she-wolf is ravaging towns and villages across Skyrim. Farkas vows to teach her respect, control, and submission... Even if they hate one another. Rated M for language, gore, and sexual content.
1. Silver in the Dark

~**Heyyyyy there! *cheesy grin* I KNOW I have another story that I haven't updated in like…a bazillion years, but this is a BETTER one! I done growed up a little!**

***Ahem* yes, well… I already have several chapters completed for this story, and yes, there WILL be some lovely smutty goodness later on in the plot! (With whom? I'll never tell! Hahah—oh wait…)**

**Anymoo, I don't own Skyrim, or the characters (except for my OC,) they're property of Bethesda. **

**Enjoy! -Cryptik**

The moons hung full and silver over Skyrim, casting their celestial glow on the drowsy streets of Whiterun. The pale glow was interrupted occasionally by the amber torchlights of passing guards on night patrol, and then reassumed its illumination of the city. The frosted light of the double moons caught the sleek red hair of a prowling huntress outside of Jorrvaskr, but then lost her to the shadowed doors of the mead hall.

The late time of night had little influence over the activity inside the Companion's respite. Few of the warriors were below in the quarters; the rest were out to meet Aela's gaze as she strode in. Many avoided her pointed stare, recognizing the angry frustration it held and turning back to their ale or spiced meats.

"Farkas!" barked the huntress, her tone sharp with urgency, "Here, now!"

The black-haired Nord stalked up to his caller, annoyance flickering in his storm-grey eyes at the harsh command. "Watch your tone, shield-sister," he growled, "You forget that you're not in charge here."

Aela ran a hand through her flame-red hair as if a sudden bout of exasperation had come over her. "I apologize," she replied lowly. "Another mauling has occurred, and is in progress as we speak. It's the same werewolf. You and Vilkas are to go to Riverwood and stop it." Her hand passed across her face again. "I fear that you will be too late no matter how swiftly you travel. She works fast."

Farkas had barely stayed to hear her last sentence before he was thrusting the doors open, calling a summons to his twin brother before being swallowed up by the night beyond the mead hall.

Farkas urged his horse faster, the animal's huge hooves thundering across the plains of Whiterun and leaving a trail of dust in his wake. He was nearly shaking with frustration and determination as he followed the winding path to Riverwood, his brother's horse not far behind.

This was not the first time he had rushed out in the dead of night with one of his shield-siblings, nearing exhaustion in their haste to reach whatever village or hamlet was under attack. They had been pursuing a single werewolf for several weeks, a rogue who had been raiding towns only with the intent of killing. From the scent, the wolf was a female, and a strong one. It was always small villages, less in guards and lacking bothersome gates or walls, always at night, and always very, very bloody. Rorikstead and Ivarstead had already fallen victim to the werewolf's plague, with several dead and a few turned. Each time, the Companion warriors had arrived too late, the attacker having seemingly vanished with the shadows of the night. When the group had made it to the panic-stricken towns, they'd only found death and destruction behind. It had seemed that any citizen unlucky enough to make it indoors had been brutally mauled and then hastily (and messily) devoured. There had been no selectiveness in the victims, ranging in race and social class, from High elves to Khajiits to Nords. Merchants and beggars alike had fallen prey to the wolf, leaving behind a mess of blood and terror for the Companions to deal with.

This time, Farkas refused to leave empty-handed. The elusive she-wolf, whomever she was, had slipped past his sword one too many times. He would catch her and use her pelt for his bedding.

So he rode on with his brother, intent on his goal and ignoring every distraction the world threw at him, including the distant echo of a dragon's roar.

However, when he and Vilkas thundered into the night-chilled town, it was he who was roaring in rage. Yet again, they were too late. Too late.

Bodies lay in the blood-slicked dirt, around five from what he could see. Mostly guards who were brave enough to challenge the wolf, their armor now shredded to pieces, even through the heavy iron scale-link. It was eerily silent-save for one thing:

The heavy pad of running paws outside the town.

With a snarl, Farkas leapt off his horse with the agility of a wolf long conquered, heading towards the gateway to the dark forest beyond Riverwood. Armor clanking as he ran, Farkas left his brother to attend to the terrified townspeople now emerging from their shelters.

The minute he got past the town gate he had shed the hindrance of the heavy armor, letting the change take him from man to beast, cloaked in the concealing shadow of midnight. Falling onto all fours, he gained speed, catching the now-familiar scent of the she-wolf and following it with the skill of a hunter well-trained. The feminine scent was tinged with the wild tang of blood and the thrill of the hunt. His wolf howled for it, but he restrained it as he had learned, refusing to give rein to the same craze that plagued his quarry.

His paws drummed rhythmically on the earth and stone, going from four to two as the terrain dictated. His prey was close, he could feel it. The beat of her powerful heart, the thrum of her racing paws, and, as he neared, the strong heaving breaths as they left her lungs. He was so close.

Then all of a sudden he was brought up short, the trail he had been following like a hard-hammered instinct going completely cold. Disappeared altogether, as if the one who had left it had been swallowed up by the night itself. He stopped abruptly, rising back to two paws, furiously searching for his lost target.

He did not have time to search for long, however, before his prey revealed herself to him all on her own accord.

What had seemed to be shadows lurking among the trees had been his quarry all along. She seemed to melt out of them, two silver eyes flashing at him from the dusk.

What struck him first were those eyes. Even in her beast form, they held worldly intelligence and cleverly wielded strength; eyes that had read a hundred books and seen a hundred battles. They were not the eyes he expected to see on a creature accountable for the slaughter of so many.

Gazing at those silver-ice eyes, half in shock and half in disbelief, he almost forgot that he was standing nearly muzzle-to-muzzle with a powerful rogue she-wolf. She had to indeed be powerful: she had just taken down several trained guards and emerged with all her limbs and very little wounds. Even more, Farkas caught the cold glint of steel from behind her and realized that she had several arrows protruding from her back. She didn't seem fazed by this fact in the slightest.

_It is foolish to chase after things when you are not aware of the power they hold._

To anyone else, the words would seem incoherent; meaningless rumbles and growls from the throat of a beast. But to another werewolf-Farkas-it was the distinct tongue of his kind.

_You are responsible for the death of honest, innocent people,_ Farkas snarled, as fearless-and thickheaded- as always in the face of adversity_. I don't care who you are or what power you claim to have, only that I best it and end your bloodlust._

A short bark signaled laughter from the female, a cold sound of facetiousness. _You intend to kill me?_ Another cold bark. _As I will not deny that I have killed, it has not always been in cold blood. And, the beast must be fed._ With her words, her long ebony claws flexed and her silver eyes seemed to glow brighter, as if enforcing her claim.

Farkas snarled back through bared fangs, although now more wary of the rogue female. She was smaller in stature in her beast form than he, less bulky with muscle, but her lithe form would allow for speed and precision in combat. Both werewolves knew that their confrontation was able to erupt into a vicious fight, and both were deftly sizing the other up, picking out strengths and weaknesses, setting up strategies like the experienced warriors they were.

_The beast does not have to be fed through the senseless murder of Skyrim's people!_ Farkas snarled, his already gruff, rumbling voice sounding even fiercer tinged with an animalistic growl. _Have you not seen the herds of elk and dens of bears that roam everywhere?_

The female analyzed him with an air of superiority, scrutinizing her confronter with those eerie ethereal eyes. _What I do with the gift of beast blood is my concern,_ she said, voice dipping to a dangerous warning tone. _If you have come after me looking to stop me, I will show you just where you went wrong._

Farkas's temper caught up with him in an angry whirl of feral rage, intent on putting this female in her place. The wolf in him roared for vengeance, for him to put her on her back beneath him in proper submission with his fangs at her throat. He lunged, claws reaching to tear her flesh, intent on ripping through the waves of silver and black fur until blood ran in rivers.

In a split instant she'd predicted his advance, perhaps even goaded him into it with her predominant retorts. In the heartbeat of time where Farkas lunged to attack, she sidestepped, evading his confrontation effortlessly. He missed her by inches and stumbled past, dazed briefly by the sudden change in his target's position. In the moments of his bewilderment, his would-be prey dug her claws into the thick fur of his ruff and threw him to the ground.

_You fight like a naïve whelp, _she growled with a lip curled over pearlescent teeth. _How do you plan to kill me when your claws can't even brush my fur?_

Farkas lurched off the ground, shaking dirt and debris from his black mane, angry stare never leaving the female. His amber-yellow eyes burned molten with malice, his hunger for this strange wolf's throat crushed in his claws fueling the fire in those orbs. He knew he had to be more unpredictable in his attacks or else she'd kill him before he even harmed a single hair on her pelt.

And so began a frenzied dance-or frenzied, at least, on Farkas's part. Their feral tango mainly consisted of his failed attacks and her evasion and then retaliation, buffering his efforts with ease and incredible precision. It was if she knew every move he would make before the decision even entered his own mind, her countering moves in perfect synchronization with his. It appeared as though she was merely testing him-playing with him, as she did not directly attack him herself. She would lure him into challenging her and then block or evade his charge without even seeming to think about it. The thought that she was treating him as if he were the mouse to her cat stabbed into the animalistic part of his mind, festering like a poisonous thorn that spread toxins to his rational thoughts and shriveled them to nothing. As his beast took over, he stumbled more and more, instinct riding over coherency. His rival knocked him on his back time and time again, not winded in the slightest and bearing only four small scratches along her ribs from his continued assaults with his claws.

_I don't know where you learned to fight,_ the female growled lowly as Farkas once again rolled off the ground snarling in rage, _but it needs to be revised. You rely too much on your instincts and not enough on your mind. _Her lip curled in cold mocking_. I can see intelligence is something you lack. _Her eyes seemed to glow like silver stars, fueled by the excitement of battle.

Farkas, however, had been pushed to the limit and was not in the least bit excited. His rage once again swept through him like a crimson river and he lunged for her, a primal roar tearing from his throat with the strength to shake the trees to their roots.

This time, however, his target reciprocated his attack. She had seen him coming, as usual, but did not sidestep or evade him as had become routine for her. This time, she merely put out a clawed paw…and caught his throat.

The force of his collision shoved her back, her huge hind paws furrowing the dirt below her as she was forced backwards. She did not fall, however, and simply tightened her grip on his neck until her claws pricked the flesh beneath the fur. Her never-wavering eyes, steadily glowing ghostly silver-white, burned into his, watching the fire of his feral rage fade from those amber orbs as the instincts of a wolf faced with death took him over.

He did not fight her-he had enough sense not to do that-but the tension remained in his burly body, his muscles rigid as Skyforge steel. The hair raised on his shoulders quivered, as if the effort of holding himself back made his entire body tremble.

She continued to scrutinize her capture with those abysmal eyes, or perhaps she was simply waiting for him to make a move. When she did not speak, Farkas broke the silence himself.

_Why don't you just kill me?_ he growled as well as he could with his throat constricted in her grip, _Isn't that what you intended to do? Obviously you have no problems with taking lives._

Her head tilted to the side, long tapered ears swiveling back and forth as if she was deciding on what to listen to: the male she held captive with a single paw, or the sounds of the night world carried by the breeze.

_I did not set out to kill you,_ she said simply, _You, in your ignorance, intended to kill me. I simply did what I had promised to do: show you your mistake._

Farkas growled again, low in his chest, his wolf raging in frustration at the position of submission he was being held in-by a female, no less. _Consider me mistaken,_ he rumbled. _But I still intend to stop you from murdering Skyrim's good people._

The female werewolf rattled him slightly, shaking him by the neck to stop his slight fidgeting. Farkas growled again, in annoyance and anger at being treated like a misbehaving pup.

_Did I not tell you before that I do not take pure lives?_ Even her tone sounded as if she thought he were a disrespectful whelp. _Have you ever seen children or an innocent elder among my victims?_

Farkas was silent.

_I thought not. My targets are precise; they die because they were meant to. With the Nine as my witnesses, I state this: I do not kill innocents._ Her eyes, dark stormy coals in the darkness, seared into him like branding irons. Her words were harsh and cold, drilling the truth into her captive.

However, the sense of justice had been bred into his Nordic mind, and he was tired of being spoken to like a wayward underling. So he did the only thing he could think of to escape the female's hold:

He shifted.

The female didn't have the chance to tighten her hold on his neck before the change took him, allowing him to slip from her grasp as he once again became a mere human-and a naked one at that.

Her eyes did not stray from his face, though; ignoring what might call most females' attentions. She watched as he stumbled out of range of her deadly grasp, holding an air of cold indifference.

_Have you no sense?_ She asked, still as coherent to Farkas as she had been when he had been in beast form. _You stand before a werewolf, as naked as a newborn, with no weapons?_

Farkas rolled his shoulders, rumbling with the relief of freeing his neck from the grip of cold ebony claws. "You have already beaten me in combat."

_You claimed to still intend to stop me._

"I do." Farkas dusted off his bare arms, unabashed at his nudity. He had lived for many seasons as a werewolf, learned to fight and accept the closeness of a pack, and he and his shield-siblings had also come to accept the inconvenience the change brought with it. "I'm offering you a place with the Companions."

The ebony and silver-furred werewolf drew back in surprise and suspicion, regarding the man with narrowed eyes. _First you pursue and attack me with hatred in your eyes, and now you ask me to join your guild?_ Her voice held doubt. _This sounds… untrustworthy._

"It's the only way I can think of to stop you," Farkas reasoned gruffly. "My opinion of you has not changed. I'm hoping you will learn respect, responsibility, and submission."

A short, hoarse bark came from the female, a cold and sarcastic sound of laughter. _I submit to no one, _she rumbled dangerously_, but I will join your pack. I would like to see where those despicable fighting skills of yours originated._

Farkas growled at the ridicule, but went on nonetheless. "I have a horse waiting with my brother in the village. You will have to walk."

The she-wolf shook her head_. I won't be accompanying you. I will meet you when the moons have faded from the sky. _

Farkas scowled. "Fine. Do you know where to find us?"

_I do._

She turned to the black cloak of the forest shadows behind her, her fighting stance dissolving into one of a lithe night predator.

"What is your name?" Farkas asked when she'd disappeared into the darkness.

A flash of silver in the dark, glowing with ethereal starlight, accompanied the drifting voice:

_Azkari'a._


	2. Among the Shadows

~**Ahah, see? Chapter two up on the same day as chapter one! Now you can trust me, my minions. :3**

**Today, FanFiction-tomorrow, the world!**

…**.Anyway…. I don't own Skyrim or the characters besides my OC…blah blah blah…**

**-Cryptik**

It took two days for the moons to completely fade from the sky over Skyrim, vanishing in the night as well as in the day. As soon as the light from the twin spheres had vanished from the world's horizon, Farkas was searching.

He spent his hours prowling the streets and alleys of Whiterun, watching restlessly for a strange female to appear through the gates of the city. He was familiar with all of the residents and frequents of Whiterun, but new traders and merchants passed through the town quite often. He had not considered, at the time of their initial confrontation, how he would identify Azkari'a in her human-or elf, or Khajiit, or Argonian-form, but he supposed he could go by scent if need be.

He had patrolled Whiterun's three districts from dawn 'til dusk, with no sight or smell of his once-adversary. He half expected her to vault over the walls after dark, perform her gory deeds, and then make a grand entrance in Jorrvaskr with blood dripping from her fangs.

Eventually he got tired of waiting and turned back towards the sanctity of the mead hall.

However, when he started up the withered stone steps to his home, he was stopped in his tracks by a pair of silver eyes locked passively on him.

Sitting on the rundown wall barricading Jorrvaskr's yard from the rest of the town sat an extraordinarily beautiful Nord woman. Long black hair tumbled over her shoulders like spilled ink, framing her almost elven-shaped face. Those celestial silver eyes watched him from under elegant curved brows like some kind of ethereal hawk, pinning him to the spot. She was dressed in armored robes of ebony black, decorated in twisting vines of silver. Half her face was hidden in shadow cast by the cowl of her robes, making her silvery eyes seem twice as brilliant. The sheath of a sword hung at her hip, although Farkas had never seen the type before in all his years of being a warrior.

Momentarily taken aback by her appearance, he almost forgot just who he was staring at in astonishment. He shook his head furiously, scattering strands of his long wild black hair.

"You're late," he said gruffly, eyeing Azkari'a with distrust.

She tilted her head at him. "I wasn't told a time that I was required to arrive," she retorted coldly, eyes narrowing. "I told you that I would be here when the moons left the sky." She gestured to the star-flecked canvas overhead, the multicolored pinpricks of light just now emerging through the colors of the dusk. "Here I am."

Farkas remained silent, not having a response to that. So he strode past her towards the mead hall, seeking solitude in a pint of ale and a hot rack of ribs. Azkari'a rose silently from the wall behind him and followed him inside.

The majority of the Companions were enjoying the usual feast set out at the great table when Farkas and his shadow made an appearance, the smells of smoked beef and spiced mead wafting to meet the two. A few of the gathered warriors glanced up in curiosity of the newcomer shadowed behind Farkas, noticing the silver eyes burning in the gloom. The members of the Circle, however, were less than curious and more suspicious, their noses in the air as they tried to place the familiarity of Azkari'a's scent.

It was Aela who identified it first, rising from her seat beside Skjor with a harsh snarl. Behind Farkas, Azkari'a watched passively as the huntress came towards her, not seeming to consider her much of a threat at all; her sword still hung untouched at her waist.

"Do you know who this is, Farkas?!" Aela asked furiously, eyes burning with incredulous fury beneath the streaks of her dark war paint. "You bring a murderer under our roof!"

Farkas threw a glance over his shoulder at the 'murderer,' as if making sure she would not rise to meet that claim at Aela's arrogance. Azkari'a, however, was doing the exact opposite; still gazing at her accuser with that strange air of Zen like calm and cold indifference.

"I realize who she is, sister," he growled lowly, also glancing at Skjor, who had come up to stand beside Aela with his lip curled. "I have a good reason to invite her here."

Aela sneered. "I should hope so, ice-brain," she retorted darkly, "or Kodlak will have your head on a pike. She is not welcome here."

At this point, Azkari'a did cut in. "Whether I am welcome here or not is irrelevant," she said, her tone taking on that same icy dangerousness as her demeanor. "I was invited, and I accepted. Your friend simply did what he thought would solve a problem that, as I hear, you have been searching for the solution for."

The huntress was silent, but continued to glare at Azkari'a coldly.

"I think you had better speak with Kodlak, Farkas," Skjor said gruffly. "And bring your pet."

At this insult, Azkari'a's temper broke through her indifference. In barely a second, she had crossed the distance separating her from Skjor, her fingers closed around his throat before anyone could even process that she had moved.

"I am no one's pet," she growled, her voice dangerously low, eyes alight with angry silver fire. "I came here of my own free will. I will stay here as long as I please, unless your leader tells me otherwise. Or would you rather I continue to kill your 'good people?'" Everyone near enough to hear her voice could hear the quotations around the last words.

Skjor remained quiet, although Aela growled a steady stream of reproach at the assault of her unspoken mate. He curled his lip at her, but did not meet her smoldering ethereal stare. Az released him, returning to the shadows behind Farkas.

"Is Kodlak in his quarters?" the Nord man asked, ignoring the stares of now every Companion in the hall.

"I believe so," Skjor answered, then turned from Farkas to lead Aela back to the table. Farkas went the opposite direction, striding stiffly towards the stairwell tucked against the back wall of Jorvaskr. Azkari'a followed, seeming for all the world a shadow, drifting along the coarse wooden floor with a cloak of midnight.

The two walked through the living quarters in terse silence; Farkas more than slightly riled and Azkari'a content to spend the moments in quiet wordlessness. Tension cracked in the air like static between her and Farkas, the obvious dislike of one another as apparent as the clothes on their backs.

When they reached the door at the end of the wide hall, Farkas knocked softly, interrupting the low murmur of voices within the closed room.

"Come in." It was Kodlak's voice, slightly cracked with age but still holding that underlying strength of a true Nord warrior.

Farkas pushed the doors open, acknowledging his brother sitting in his usual spot at the harbinger's table.

"I was… instructed to come see you," Farkas said, his tone going bitter at the insinuation of an order.

Kodlak, with years of experience in the company of the younger, rather thickheaded warriors, recognized the man's behavior. "Do not feel resentment for your shield-siblings' apprehension, Farkas," he said calmly, those years of wisdom showing through his placid demeanor. "You brought one with blood on her hands into their haven. They have a right to question your judgment."

Farkas inclined his head in respect. "I apologize. I only thought to end her reign of terror. I saw no other solutions."

"You could kill her," Vilkas put in, his gaze reproachful but otherwise indifferent. At this suggestion, Azkari'a snorted.

Farkas turned visibly darker in pallor under his war paint. "She defeated me in combat, brother," he admitted quietly, his voice sounding even more like a growl. "I told you this."

Kodlak raised a thick greying eyebrow, looking towards the shadowy female behind Farkas. "And you did not kill him when you defeated him?" he asked in genuine curiosity.

"I do not kill people who are not deserving of it." The reply was short, simple, but the tone was more respectful than cold, as it normally was.

"But did he not attack you first?"

"He did," Az replied, "but I understand why he did so."

Kodlak sat back in his chair, seeming satisfied with her answer and also slightly thoughtful. "You see, Vilkas?" the old Nord said, nodding at his companion, "She cannot be all wicked. She has a good mind; not one of a feral wolf."

Vilkas was quiet for a moment. Then, "I admit, she is not the one I imagined her to be when Farkas told me what he had done." He turned a storm-grey stare to Azkari'a. "You would make a valuable addition to the Companions, if you fights as well as Farkas said you do."

Kodlak nodded, fingers touching the hilt of a dagger at his belt absentmindedly. "Well, Azkari'a, if you are truly the virtuous woman and wolf you appear to be, we will accept you here."

Azkari'a dipped her head, although her silver eyes never left the harbinger. "Thank you, old wolf," she said, her voice seeming even more mellifluous in comparison to the three males' gruffness. "I will not disgrace your name."

The old warrior looked pleased. Vilkas, on the other hand, did not seem as placated.

"Being a part of the Companions means that you will be required to stop what you have been doing," he growled, his insinuation clear. "If you don't, you will be hunted down and killed. You may have the power to defeat Farkas, but you will undoubtedly fall to our entire legion. Am I understood?"

Azkari'a turned her blazing celestial stare onto him, that icy dangerousness once again present in her gaze.

"I will not be spoken to as if I am a whelp," she snarled lowly. "My wolf's blood is older than yours, youngling, and far more powerful. I have told your leader that I will not bring dishonor onto his name. However, if you choose to test my patience, I will no longer care about the virtues of respect. _Am I understood?"_

Vilkas was silent.

Azkari'a raised her gaze to Farkas, who had been quiet since the initial introduction. "I will return in the morning," she said, coldness still icing her voice with frost. "You can expect me with the rise of the sun."

"You are welcome to stay here, Azkari'a," Kodlak invited as she turned to leave. "We have many empty beds in the bunk room."

The mysterious female werewolf turned back with a slight smile, although it was not an entirely friendly gesture. "I do not prefer to share my space with so many, especially so many that do not trust me," she said. "I will return to my own home."

With that she swept out of the hall, disappearing like a shadow with the rise of the sun.

The three men sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the events that had come to pass.

It was Farkas who broke the quiet. "Are you sure about allowing her to join our ranks, Kodlak?" he asked, uncertainty tingeing his voice.

"Do you doubt your own choice, young one?" the harbinger asked, picking up a sweet roll from his plate on the table. "It was you who invited her to join us, as I recall."

Farkas ran a hand through his shaggy black hair. "No, I-I suppose I just cannot come to terms with who she is and what she's done, and that now we call her a Companion." He shook his head as if to make the concept stick. "It is against all I know."

Kodlak looked at him wisely. "Sometimes we have to put aside the traditions of the past to make something greater come forth," he said. "And in order for her to trust us, we must first trust her." He turned to Vilkas, who was still silently musing in his chair, brow furrowed. "She certainly does have a temper, though."

Vilkas had no answer for that, besides a flash of his grey eyes.

"I understand her apprehension at staying here with us, however," the harbinger continued, "Perhaps when she gains more certainty of us, she will consider taking a room in our hall."

Farkas scowled. "Living with a murderer," he grumbled, turning to leave, "What's next?"


	3. Midnight Blur

When Azkari'a awoke, the rays of the sun had not yet touched the panes of her windows. Untangling herself from the nest of furs she slept in, she stretched, as if waking her body from its slumber. Giving the soft skin of her neck a gentle scratch, she glanced around her room, taking inventory.

Her armor had been set in its usual spot adorning the mannequin in the corner, its ebony color making it seem like a shadow in the early morning gloom. She only wore the thick plates when she knew she was going into combat; otherwise she dressed in one of her lightly-armored sets of robes or hunting clothes, which were tucked into their respective drawers in the dresser under the window opposite her bed. She wasn't entirely sure which outfit she should equip herself with for today's events, although her conscience was favoring the set of lighter armor robes.

Her weapons collection adorned the opposite wall, numerous plaques and glass display cases decorating the walls and shelves. Her preferred sword hung on its designated plaque at the very center of the wall: a dark midnight-black blade, sleek and intricately embellished with silvery runes and knot work. Its hilt was wrapped with black leather, flaring out at the bottom of the pommel where a large sapphire was held in the grasp of twining metalwork. The blade's name was Nightbyter, and it was the only one of its kind. Its twin dagger, Blackfyre, sat in its own place on a plaque below the sword's.

Azkari'a reached for the comb on her bedside table, intent on taming her long black mane, unruly from a night of sleeplessness. From the start she had not even been able to fall asleep, let alone sleep peacefully. Her mind was too clouded to allow her escape from reality.

She had agreed to join the Companions, yes. But would that keep her from doing her job? Yes again. She hunted down those who had committed acts under-the-table that were worthy of death-and those who had displeased her god. A loyal… follower, of sorts, of Hircine, Azkari'a was bound into his service through something stronger than just the blood of a wolf. Something else made her capable of doing things other mortals-and even other werewolves-could not. And it was something she could not-no matter how much she desired-get out of.

She ran the comb through her tangled hair absently, brow furrowed in deep thought. She was not one to disrespect her elders, as she had given the old harbinger her word that she would not disgrace his name. But could she go against the commands of her god to avoid doing just that? She shook her head. No, she could not. But there would be no more slaughter on such a large scale, and no more killing guards just in retaliation of the arrows they shot into her flesh. Such pathetic projectiles could not do much damage to one of her status, anyway. But she would still have to kill, as Hircine commanded it. The hunt was in her blood, and she did not have hatred for it.

The Nord woman rose from her nest to find her cloak, wrapping it around her naked body. She nearly always slept without clothes, preferring to be able to feel the soft comfort of the furs around her as she slumbered. She supposed it reminded her of the days she spent as a pup, snuggled with her mother and siblings. She also did not like to hide her body; she was not vain, but she recognized that her form was one to admire and she took no shame in displaying her slender curves, flat, toned stomach, and ample breasts in the comfort of her own home.

Her feet made no sound as she crossed the wooden floor on the way to her private bath, seeking the comfort of the naturally warmed water before her day began. She figured that her stress level would be given an extra prod today…

Warm, heavy steam drifted across the slate floor, wrapping around Azkari'a as if in greeting as she opened the door and padded into the bathing room. She welcomed the heat in return, inhaling the luxurious scents of fragrant mountain flowers, dragon's tongue, and heavy spiced incense.

Her bathing room was comfortably spacious; not cavernous in size yet not small either. The unique grey slate tiles made up the floor, ranging in size like a monochromatic mosaic. The walls were dark red-brown wood, complimenting the thick wooden beams running across the ceiling. In the center of the room was a wide rectangular pool, steam drifting off the surface off the crystal-clear water and filling the rest of the space. A marble statue of a water nymph stood in the center of the pool on a raised pedestal, water spilling out of her cupped hands and down through a series of shallow basins before spilling musically into the pool. Candles surrounded the bath, some on short daises and some on the deck itself, their flickering flames turning the mist gentle shades of yellow-amber. Shelves of oils and soaps bordered the room, accompanied with bowls of flowers and incense burners.

Azkari'a unlaced the tie on her cloak and draped it over the back of a nearby chair, welcoming the warm steam as it enveloped the rest of her body. She turned to close the door, sliding the key into the lock.

The warm water caressed her body as she stepped into the pool and sat on one of the submerged marble benches, making her sigh contentedly. It came up to her collarbone when she was sitting, lapping gently at her golden-tinged skin from the ripples created by the fountain. Grabbing a glass vial of lavender oil from a nearby basin, Azkari'a began working the fragrant liquid into her long ebony hair, musing as she did.

The harbinger of the Companions had seemed hospitable enough, honorable and wise in his old age. Azkari'a figured she'd get along well with him, seeing that he had treated her with respect instead of the seething hatred she had received from the others. Not that she cared what they thought of her; she would show them all quite soon that she was far too powerful to worry about their opinion. Kodlak had seemed to sense this power in her, and perhaps that was why he wasn't apt to judge her.

She and Farkas held a mutual dislike for one another, which was clear enough. It was good, she thought-they would stay out of one another's way and avoid confrontation. Maybe. Azkari'a frowned as she ran her fingers through the now-silky strands of her midnight mane. He could also use every opportunity to contradict her, start arguments, and implement his plan to make her 'learn respect and submission.' This, unfortunately, seemed like the more probable outcome.

The female of the group that had confronted them when Az had first arrived would need to be taught a lesson, Azkari'a reasoned. She would not stand to be pushed around and thought of sourly. Yes, she had done things, terrible things in the eyes of the noble warriors, but in her eyes it was the just work of her god, her hand of guidance. She didn't like the woman's mate, either; the insult at being called a pet had riled her enough to break from her indifferent coldness. If the man thought he could call her such audacious names while she was around to hear them, she would teach him very fast that he was extremely wrong.

The other man, Farkas's twin, seemed… indifferent. Properly opposed to Azkari'a, as were all the others and as she had suspected, but he seemed more levelheaded and collected. Perhaps she could learn to get along with him. At the moment she favored him over his justice-bloated brother.

Azkari'a sighed, the instinctual feeling of the rise of the sun creeping up on her in her time of relaxation and thought. It was time to go prepare for the day, and her first real introduction to the Companions. She rose from the bath, water running down her healthy golden skin in crystal rivulets. Gathering her cloak around her after using one of the linen cloths to dry herself, she collected a few small health potions from one of the shelves, anticipating many headaches to prod at her during the course of the day.

Farkas had been awake for hours, his overactive mind rousing him long before the light of the sun graced the mead hall. He sat out by the fire pit, rubbing his steel sword with a ragged cloth at the corner of one of the tables. The food he had hastily grabbed sat untouched in front of him, his mind too busy to be concerned with the meal.

Today Azkari'a would return to Jorrvaskr, and her trial would begin. In truth, she needed no trial, haven already proven her strength when she nearly killed him that night in Riverwood's forest. The memory of how she tested him, toyed with him, was still lodged like a seething thorn in his brain.

But the trial was a tradition of the Companions, and she would have to go through it. If she maimed anyone in the process of 'testing her strength,' then Farkas could laugh in his brother's face and say "I told you so." It was Vilkas who had insisted that Azkari'a be given the trial, obviously not believing that she had defeated Farkas so easily.

The black-maned Nord rubbed at a spot on his blade and scowled. If anything needed to be tested, it was Azkari'a's loyalty. He failed to believe that one could go from a cold murderer to a dedicated Companion in a few short days. He couldn't think of a way to prove this, though, so he decided to sit and wait.

Vilkas walked in just as Farkas was sheathing his sword, searching for a morning meal.

"That's not the only sword you need to sheathe, brother," Vilkas said teasingly. "You look even moodier than a drunkard without his ale."

Farkas shot him a look. "Very funny," he growled at his twin, "But that isn't the problem."

Vilkas shook his head, chuckling gruffly. "Of course it isn't," he said, partially to himself, as he went to pick up a plate.

His brother scowled in his general direction, but didn't offer a rebuttal.

No, his sexual activity-or lack of it-was not the issue affecting his mood. The turn of events in relation to Azkari'a had turned him from one of the most good-natured warriors in the guild to a skulking wolf. Although he himself had invited her into the hall, it was rubbing against his every instinct to allow one such as her to share his warrior haven.

Farkas glanced at Vilkas, who seemed more upbeat than usual, chewing his meal with a thoughtful and rather pleased expression. It seemed like his twin had found a place to sheathe his sword last night-and a rather good one, if his mood was any indication.

He kept quiet, though; a content Vilkas was easier to deal with than a disgruntled one.

So instead of pestering his brother about his recent bed partners, Farkas rose from his chair and wandered out to the yard, where Azkari'a was due to arrive with the rise of the sun.

And arrive she had: she was sitting on the outer wall as he strode out, the new rays of deep orange sunlight illuminating her form from behind, silhouetting her in a halo of morning radiance. Once again Farkas was caught off guard by her stunning looks, along with her majestic appearance. After a moment, though, he shoved it away, remembering once again who she really was.

"You're early," he said thickly, absently pushing back a chair that had been left separated from one of the tables.

"I said I would arrive when the sun rose," she responded, gesturing to the orange light behind her, her motions jarring the halo surrounding her. "Here I am."

Farkas frowned, the words seeming familiar…ghosts of the night before.

"What is my purpose here today?" she continued, still looking like a shadow backlit by sunlight as she slid off the wall and strode towards him, her movements almost lazy. "It is irritatingly early."

"You're the one who wanted to show up with the sunrise," Farkas retorted, storm-grey eyes flashing at her. "I would have been perfectly agreeable with a later time."

Azkari'a didn't respond, and didn't seem to be listening. Her celestial silver eyes graced the courtyard, surveying the practice equipment, dining tables, and flickering torches with mild interest. Farkas saw her hand stroke the sheath of her unusual sword, as if she was eager to pull the blade out and sever something.

"Vilkas will be out soon to test your sword handling," he said, pulling his eyes from the annoyingly sensual motion of her hand. Maybe his brother had been right in his earlier jest. "It's just a practice run, so don't get any funny ideas."

Azkari'a's gaze flicked back to him, pinning him with silver knives. "Don't expect me to roll onto my back in submission," she said, her tone once again carrying that warning frost. "I will fight however I see fit to prove myself."

"I never asked you to submit," Farkas growled, meeting her gaze with slight difficulty. "Just show him some respect. You may be a stronger wolf, but he has been an honest warrior all his life." It didn't take the stress on the word honest for her to understand his insinuation.

"Honesty all depends on one's opinion," she snapped back, her lip curled over pearlescent teeth-which looked sharper than they should have.

Farkas grumbled, then turned to leave for the Skyforge just as his brother strolled casually out of the doors. "She's yours," he muttered lowly to his brother. "And she is not one for the early mornings."

Vilkas chuckled lowly, his mood still silver-chalice bright. "I don't blame her." Was all he said.

Azkari'a fixed Farkas's brother with her ethereal silver gaze as he strode towards her, seeming expectant yet guarded. Vilkas scrutinized her, summing her up in a warrior's perspective. She was clothed in a battle outfit that looked as if it was made of dragon scales, colored the color of fresh blood and glinting slickly in the morning light. Black leathers sheathed her legs and disappeared into high boots that came up to her knees. Her gauntlets matched her footwear; elegant yet dangerous-looking leather gloves laced up with thin chains. Spikes on the knuckles of each made them useful in unarmed combat. Her strange sword hung in its sheath on her left side, a matching dagger on her other.

"Alright then," Vilkas said, his voice losing its content tone in favor of his usual gruffness. "Just take a few swings at me so I can see how you fight. Nothing serious."

Azkari'a raised an eyebrow. "No shield?" she asked, still guarded. Vilkas shook his head and she shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Vilkas barely had time to raise his long-sword in defense before Azkari'a became a blur of motion, her ebony blades singing through the air in a whirl of midnight shine. Sparks glittered with the harsh clang of metal as their blades clashed.

"Good," he grunted, straining against the force Azkari'a was exerting on his blade held up in a block, trying to comprehend what had just happened. "But you weren't directing your attacks at me like I requested."

A strange glint came into the she-wolf's silver eyes. "I would advise you to look to your left."

Vilkas broke his stare-down with her to glance at his arm. When he did, he drew in a shocked breath. Cuts lanced his bulging tricep, not deadly but yet still weeping bright scarlet blood in thick rivulets. He had not even noticed her inflict the wounds; her actions had been too rapid for him to follow.

Azkari'a dropped her blades, a mischievous sort of cold smile on her face as she slid the sword and dagger into their respective sheaths. "I suggest that you see to those," she said, touching the hilts of those wicked weapons as if in reverence. "I never know what these are capable of."

Vilkas slid his sword back into the sheath on his back with his good hand, beginning to feel the pain creep into the other from Azkari'a's damage. He gazed at her as she strode off casually, his expression one of both suspicion and incredulousness.

Azkari'a followed the worn stone path around the side of Jorrvaskr, seeking to watch Whiterun awaken from a perch on the crumbling wall. Her trial with Vilkas had been simple-amusingly so. If that was how the Companions judged their recruits, it was not a surprise to her that she had defeated Farkas so easily on the night of their first confrontation.

Or perhaps it was because she had been trained by the very best, Hircine himself among them. Yes, she thought to herself, that was probably it.

Azkari'a was sitting on the haggard wall when Farkas returned from his morning patrols, watching passively as the city came to life with the slow climb of the sun.

"Did Vilkas assess you already?" he asked. Usually his brother took much longer to evaluate new recruits, no matter their background.

"Yes," she answered, her attention still not captured by his presence.

"Where is he?"

This time she turned her blazing silver stare to him, offering the same strange smile she had given his brother earlier. "Inside, I'd imagine, tending to his wounds."

Farkas's face colored in anger. "You wounded him? He only insisted on a simple trial!"

Azkari'a's expression didn't change even with the harshness of his tone. "I gave him his trial," she said simply, "He failed it."

Effectively sick of the conversation, the Nord man stormed off, throwing open the doors of Jorrvaskr in anger.

Vilkas was sitting calmly at one of the tables in the corner of the dining pit, allowing Aela to finish bandaging his freshly cleaned arm. He looked up at Farkas as his brother stalked through the door. His earlier good-nature seemed to have disappeared, but he did not seem angry.

"Calm yourself, brother," Vilkas said, "We don't need a storm to brew."

Farkas ignored him, jabbing a finger at his brother's cleanly wrapped arm. "She did this?" he asked with a curled lip.

Vilkas raised a thick black eyebrow. "Yes," he responded evenly, "and proved that she needed no trial to be one of us."

Farkas scowled. "She shouldn't have harmed you," he growled. "It was meant to be an assessment, not a battle."

"You sound like a territorial mate," Aela put in, half amused. "Your brother knew what he was getting himself into, challenging her skills. Azkari'a seems like the type to go to all lengths to prove herself. Which, I hear, she did with unbelievable skill."

Vilkas nodded in agreement. "I didn't even know that she had cut me," he said, "Even though she had done…what she's done, she will be a strong asset to us in the fight against the Silver Hand."

Farkas, however, was not as convinced. "She still needs to go on the hunt," he grumbled, reminded by Vilkas's comment.

"I will take her tonight," Aela volunteered, tying the bandage closed. "I would like to see these fighting skills our new shield-sibling supposedly possesses."

"Fine."

With that, Farkas stalked off to drown his frustration in mead.


	4. Paint the Walls Red

**~Did I forget to put an author's note on my last chapter? Hmm… No, what are you talking about? I haven't been up to anything mysterious. :3 **

**Here's another chapter for you, and some more tension between our lovely irritable Azkari'a and gruff old Farkas. And a little bit of boobies. ;D**

**I don't own Skyrim, blah blah blah…**

**-Cryptik**

The moons were once again bloated and luminous over Skyrim, bathing the two motionless figures on the plain below in frosty white light.

Aela and Azkari'a perched on a grass-swept knoll, overlooking a camp tucked into the hollow below. They were both outfitted in full battle armor; Aela in the fur and steel of her wolf armor and Azkari'a in glinting ebony. The silver-eyed she-wolf held her ubiquitous midnight sword in her hand, the blade frosted by the moonlight.

"Alright, new blood," Aela murmured lowly, ignoring Azkari'a's growl at the name. "We go in, we slaughter all of them, and we leave. The faster we complete our hunt, the sooner we can move on to the next target."

Azkari'a nodded. "We leave no one alive."

Aela drew her bow, notching an arrow from her quiver. "Do not shift," she warned, "They use silver weapons that will knock you back the second they bite your flesh."

Azkari'a said nothing. This she already knew; it was not her first encounter with the werewolf hunters.

In the blink of an eye Aela's arrow was sailing through the air, and then sprouting from the chest of the lonely guard posted outside the camp. The man dropped like a ragdoll, the first victim of the huntress's deadly aim.

Azkari'a led the way down to the door in the hollow, celestial eyes burning like the stars above. She paused briefly to search the guard's body for any keys, rifling through vials of disease cure potions until she came upon a single piece of cold steel. This she slipped into the door of the sunken fort, gaining access with ease and stalking in with Aela on her tail.

The huntress slipped into a crouch as they came upon the corridor leading into the dungeon, intent on sneaking along the wall and dispatching her enemies from the cover of shadows. Azkari'a gazed at her for a moment with mild interest, then turned and strode down the hall as if she lived there, paying no mind her lack of concealment.

"Azkari'a!" Aela hissed, her voice barely above a breath of sound. "What are you doing?! You will kill us both!"

Az turned a smoldering celestial stare on the slinking huntress. "I prefer for my enemies to see who delivers their deaths." With that simple reason stated, she resumed her determined stroll.

With another hiss through bared teeth, Aela followed the seemingly-insane she-wolf.

When Azkari'a encountered the small dining hall tucked into a niche in the dungeon corridor, she stopped briefly in the shadows outside the door, head tilted, listening.

"Bloody beasts are everywhere," came one voice, thick and heavy with the taint of alcohol. "Fucking disease-ridden monsters."

There came a grumble of agreement from the others in the room-three, Az decided, scenting the stale air.

When the ebony-clad warrioress had decided that the conversation consisted of nothing more than werewolf-killing banter, she announced her arrival quite spectacularly, with a flurry of midnight sharpness. With alarmed shouts, the men rose from their charred meals, drawing swords and axes as Azkari'a swept into the room.

The first man did not even have the chance to swing his blade before he dropped to the ground, dead, riddled with Aela's arrows.

Azkari'a took care of the other two, bathing the room in scarlet as her ebony blade dispatched limbs and opened bodies. The last Silver Hand in the room was left without a hand, or head for that matter, his decapitated body dropping to the ground in the pool of his own blood. His head thudded dully to the ground, eyes open in fury and terror, mouth frozen forever in a silent scream.

Azkari'a strode down the next ragged hall, not even bothering to wipe the blood that coated Nightbyter like a gory liquid sheath. She glanced back at Aela with that strange grin of ice and fangs.

The woman's fighting skills were indeed unbelievable, Aela agreed silently, still shocked at the swiftness at which Az had ended the existence of the Silver Hands in the dining hall. She had been a blur of silent midnight, and then the hunters had been no more, their assassin moving carelessly on to her next victims.

Azkari'a dispatched another guard wandering the hall, sending him into the next life with a slice of her sword from the shadows. His head rolled on the ground before he even had a chance to draw his own weapon, blood pouring from the stump of his neck as his body slumped to the ground.

The narrow corridor led down deeper into the ground, lichen and wet moss reclaiming the cracked stone of the walls and floor. Roots twisted down from the dirt ceiling, seeking fingers waiting to pull up the next to walk by. To Azkari'a they were as much of a bother as the air she took into her lungs, leading Aela down the twisted paths with the grace of a hunting wolf.

The next room, a small, ragged armory filled with rusted weapons and dank air, proved no hindrance for the two deadly huntresses. Once they breezed through, one of the adversaries lay like a bleeding pincushion for Aela's arrows, and the other lacked his head—the work of Azkari'a.

The silver-eyed she-wolf paused when she and her ally came upon the cages.

As Aela riddled the dungeon guards with arrows and dagger slashes, her shield-sibling lurked among the dark and dank of the cells. The room reeked of death; decay hung in the air like sickly fog and the smell of wet, bloody fur only increased the rancidity of the place. The first few cages held only death, werewolves who had been unfortunate or unwary enough to be caught by the Silver Hand. All had met death in the true form of the beast, and Azkari'a pitied them silently. To die in such a place as this, stripped of dignity and peace, was something she simply could not fathom.

However, in the last cell, hidden by the grimy gloom, a pair of yellow eyes burned like vengeful coals.

Aela, through with her bloody task, strode over to stand beside Azkari'a.

"Nobody we know," she muttered lowly, her eyes never leaving the fiery yellow ones now trained on her from inside the cell. "If you let it out, it will attack us, Azkari'a. It is feral."

The ebony-clad warrioress continued to stare at those dirty ochre eyes in the gloom of the dark cell, a mask of indifference-and slight sorrow-eclipsing her features. "I wonder what it is like, to be slowly driven mad by your own nature," she said after a moment, her soft voice a glimmer of light in the foreboding space. "To lose yourself to the beast so wholly that you can no longer find your humanity."

Aela shifted, riled under the unrelenting stare of the feral werewolf on the other side of those cold silver bars. "We once thought you feral as well," she said, not completely unkindly, "We are all capable of ending up like…this." She gestured to the cell.

Azkari'a said nothing, but from the small black leather pouches on her waistplate she produced a simple steel object, and slid it into the lock on the cage door. Ignoring Aela's hiss of warning, she picked at the lock expertly until it clicked.

The werewolf charged, pushing through the door without any regard for the pure silver that singed its skin as it came in contact with the bars of the cell. Aela shouted and leapt back, loosing her arrow, which narrowly missed the rampaging beast. The wolf snarled, spit and angry foam flying from its rotten maw as it roared its pent-up fury to the chamber that had held it captive. Spotting Azkari'a, the beast charged again, intent on knocking her off her feet or flinging her across the dungeon. The she-wolf simply stood, sword lowered, staring passively with those burning silver orbs of reconciliation. When the wolf neared, she simply raised her hands…and grasped its throat.

The wolf stalled, recognizing the deadly grip. Its eyes still flamed on coals of malice, claws frozen in a reaching grip.

"Peace, brother," Azkari'a rumbled, her eyes burning into the beast's. It was not her normal flowing voice, though. Instead it was the low, guttural tone of the beasts. "We are not enemies. We are both children of Hircine. Return to your mind, moon brother."

Remarkably, the fire in the wolf's amber eyes seemed to die, doused by the cold silver of his holder's. His stance slackened, a glint of faint recognition in his gaze, now void of its crazed feral edge. His lips lowered to cover the yellowed knives of his vicious snarl, now placid in his stare-down with this obvious alpha female.

Az released his throat and he still stood passive as a tamed dog. "Go," she commanded, "I wish you well, hunter."

Without any hesitation the werewolf turned, fell onto all fours, and bolted out, releasing a howl from his throat that was hoarse from the strangulation of captivity and torture.

Aela stood, stunned and incredulous, bow and notched arrow held frozen in mid-attack. "You just released a feral werewolf into the plains of Skyrim," she said, anger tinting her voice. "Madness does not fade after the feral are free."

Azkari'a gazed after the werewolf, an odd sort of look in her flickering eyes. "He is more sane than all of us."

* * *

Azkari'a and Aela had reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the winding, crumbling pathways, and both knew very well what lied in wait beyond it. All other guards had been dismembered and disposed, and every other room stripped and cleared of important contents. The two she-wolves were now face-to-face with the barrier blocking the completion of their final task.

Azkari'a, Aela had noticed with slight disdain, had no qualms regarding the slaughter with which they had bathed the walls. Yes, the killing of Silver Hand members was something to be reveled in, being what they were. However, Azkari'a went about it with a kind of cold indifference; an icy uncaring demeanor that glared down her foes in the form of her shock-silver eyes-the last things they saw before Az took them from the mortal realm. It was as if the hunt was her job, her life, rather than an honor-bound pastime.

The raven-haired warrioress brandished her sword as Aela worked the lock of the great wooden door, the ominous drip, drip, drip of blood falling from the dark blade to crumbled stone filling the small alcove with a chilling sense of malice.

"Their leader is known as 'The Skinner,' for reasons you can probably imagine," Aela said bitterly, her expert fingers twisting the lockpick in the keyhole. "Be wary of him."

"It does not matter to me what he is called," Azkari'a replied, her voice holding that usual coldness. "As long as I slice his head from his shoulders, nothing else is of any concern to me."

As she finished her sentence, a slight click of finality came from the lock on the door, broadcasting Aela's success. The huntress stood, drawing her bow in determined preparation, glancing at Azkari'a to lead. "We will finish this."

Flashing Nightbyter with a flourish of honed skill, the silver-eyed she-wolf thrust through the door.

Within moments the inhabitants inside were armed and charging for the intruders, shouts of insult and alarm preceding their attack. Silver flashed in the dim torchlight, coated with slick poison as if the taint of the metal was not enough.

The archer across the room fell to her own brand of weaponry within the first few moments, sinking to the floor as Aela's arrows found their mark. Azkari'a clashed with the captain's obvious secondhand, knocking the bear-skull headdress to the ground with a brutal blow of the hilt of her sword. Her face was a mask of beautiful rage as she struck him time and time again, dancing out of the way of his attacks before darting back in to make a slice of her own. She found gaps in his armor as if her mind had supplied a map for her, her wicked sword tearing gaping mouths of blood into his unguarded flesh. Finally, she spared the man of his agony, driving her midnight blade into the crack in his chest plate until the sword sunk into flesh and bone. His gurgled exclamations of pain and rage were cut off abruptly, his life pouring from his mouth in the form of a crimson current as he dropped to the dirty ground.

A snarl left Azkari'a's throat as the sharp pain of an arrow making contact shot through her from her left shoulder. She whirled around, her eyes alight with starry explosions, and located the Silver Hand chief flattened against the far wall. His bow was raised, another arrow pointed strait at her.

With a roar of fury able to chill the blood in a lesser man's veins, Azkari'a started for her assailant in a storm of ebony rage. Aela was locked in combat with another of the guards, unable to offer any assistance.

Azkari'a needed no assistance.

Another arrow thudded into her chest, sinking through her armor and piercing her breast with the silver-coated tip. With nothing more than a slight hiss through her bared fangs, she ignored the striking pain, vaulting onto the rise of the blacksmith's platform and knocking the bow right out of the chief's hands-and taking them with it.

'The Skinner' dropped to the ground, screams of agony echoing behind his steel-plate helmet as blood poured from the stumps of his wrists. Azkari'a showed him no mercy: with one hand she struck a blow to the side of his head, the other sent her blackened blade sailing through the air until the razor edge bit into his exposed neck.

As the crippled man sputtered gurgled screams, his life bleeding out of him as he struggled under Azkari'a's relentless blade, the merciless she-wolf simply leant down to whisper a few short words: "The only monster here is you." Then her sword completed its gruesome delightful work, taking the Silver Hand chief's head in a spray of deathly crimson.

With disgust curling her lip over glinting fangs, Azkari'a shoved the crippled and decapitated body to the ground. Lifting her cooling silver eyes from the pooling blood, she found Aela.

The guard she had been fighting was long dead, collapsed in a puddle of his own life source. The enemy had long since been destroyed, and yet Aela's eyes burned with seething fire much stronger than before as she stared at the body below her.

Azkari'a came to stand beside the tense-jawed huntress, feeling her mourning despite her chilling exterior façade.

"I am sorry," she murmured lowly, honest sincerity held in her voice, "He was your mate." There was no question in her statement; the bond between the two wolves had been strong enough for anyone with decent eyes to recognize the meaning.

Aela said nothing, continuing to stare down in shocked angry silence at Skjor's lifeless body. When she finally spoke, she did not look up, her eyes closed to the world and its unfairness.

"Go back to Jorrvaskr. Tell them what happened. I will stay here."

For once Azkari'a did not refuse the command, sheathing her sword and turning to leave, forgetting about the arrows still embedded into her flesh.

* * *

Drowsiness clouded the interior of Jorrvaskr when Azkari'a strode through the doors, the moons still high above the world outside. The only conscious members of the guild were Farkas and Kodlak, sitting in contemplative silence around the wide fire pit. When Az made her appearance, probably resembling some gory pincushion with the arrows protruding from blood-weeping holes in her ebony armor plates. Her sword, too, bore the evidence of her battle, stained with the scarlet life of her enemies.

Farkas rose from his chair, rather violently in his haste, an expression of anger already beginning to form on his scarred face. "Where is Aela?!" he questioned harshly, "Tell me you didn't get her killed!"

Azkari'a's lip curled in warning, displaying a razor-sharp fang. "Your tone is extremely testing," she snarled bluntly, "Is this how you greet all warriors returning from a victorious battle?"

Kodlak snorted from his seat, a strange sound for the old man. "She has a point, young one," he said simply. "We owe our shield-sister more respect than your display convenes, especially since it does indeed seem that she has returned to us in victory."

Farkas growled, a low rumble in his chest. "Where is Aela?" he repeated, his tone sounding painfully restrained.

Azkari'a regarded him coldly. "She wished to stay behind," she replied coolly, "I would assume you would do the same had you just lost a lover."

There was no longer an expression of barely-masked anger on Farkas's face. Instead there was one of gradual understanding…and then sadness. Kodlak was silent for a moment as well, waiting until Az's burning silver gaze cooled.

"He died a true warrior, then," the old harbinger said, shaking his head with appropriate sadness. "He will hunt forever with our lord in the next life. The man will enjoy that." He glanced at Azkari'a, torn out of a sudden moment of time-warped trance, seeming to notice her wounds for the first time. "Farkas, please see to her wounds."

The command broke the black-maned Nord out of his sorrowful reverence, and he cast a gruff glance at the woman in front of him. "Fine," was all he said, turning to head for the living quarters. Soundlessly, Azkari'a followed, even though she debated her need of 'help' with tending her wounds.

Farkas led her to one of the private rooms towards the back of the quarters, and by the scent Az presumed it was his. She noticed, with mild amusement, that he had a bar in his room, which took up the majority of the space. Aside from the bar and kegs, the rest of the small room was occupied by his bed and a few simple chests.

It was in one of these chests that he was rummaging in now, as Azkari'a stood, cold and silent, in the doorway. "I don't require assistance," she muttered, the candlelight turning her silken black hair a deep shade of indigo.

Farkas grunted, not even turning back to her. "I'm not one to disobey the harbinger," he growled, still wrist-deep in the contents of the old oak chest. Finally productive in his hunt, he removed several thick linen wraps, what seemed to be shears, and a mildly clean cloth.

Azkari'a didn't press the matter; she simply glided over to his bed and sat down, her armor shifting uncomfortably against the arrows protruding from her chest and shoulder blade. Farkas turned to her from his search, eyeing her thinly.

"How do you expect me to clean your wounds if you still have armor on?" he asked, his voice barely making it above a testing growl. "I barely know how to do this as it is."

There was no mistaking that flash of anger that flickered behind the silver abyss of Azkari'a's gaze, her fingers flexing into claws in her lap. Farkas had figured her reaction would be as such, and he curled his lip at her.

"Before you make the assumption that I only want to see you naked, you can shove that idea up your ass," he snarled. "I'm only doing what Kodlak asked."

Azkari'a did not reply, but the cold regard did not fade from her frigid gaze. She held her hand out for the shears, already knowing what they were for. Farkas tossed them to her and she caught the cold steel object with deft precision.

Trying not to upset the now very sensitive flesh that had been torn by the tip, she placed the blades of the shears around the shaft of the arrow in her chest and cut it. The end of the arrow fell to the ground, trimmed hawk feathers at the base tinted scarlet. She begrudgingly handed the shears back to Farkas, who repeated the process with the arrow in her shoulder, where she could not reach.

After the obstructions were clear, Azkari'a began to undo the chains and buckles of her chest plate, slipping her gauntlets off before doing so. The thick, ornately decorated plates dropped onto the bed, leaving the she-wolf in just her thin black tunic. Farkas turned away as she undressed, trying to ignore the small voice in his mind that told him he really did want to see her without the obstruction of her armor. She certainly wasn't ill-shaped, for sure… He shook his head. Knock it off.

"If you are just going to stand there, give me the linens so I can do this myself," she said lowly from behind him, her cold yet honey-smooth voice just barely tainted with a hint of discomfort. "You are not helping by standing around."

Gritting his teeth, Farkas turned to face her. His eyes met cold silver, although the soft skin underneath those crystal orbs was colored a bit pinker than usual. From the waist up she was bare, her tunic in a bloody pile beside her, now useless. He tried not to stare at the smooth, golden expanse of her shoulders, or the gradual slope to her perfect full breasts-which she was now trying to cover with one arm draped across her torso-or the soft, flawless skin stretched healthily across the steel-toned muscles of her stomach. Shaking his head again to clear it of the lustful fog that had begun to creep in and reminding himself of just who he was staring at, he dropped the wraps and cloth in a pile on the bed beside her, sitting behind her to reach the wound on her back. Start with the less awkward of the two, he thought.

Farkas set to work with his cleaning; dipping the cloth in the bowl of water he had procured from behind the bar. Azkari'a went ridged, no doubt feeling the sting of the pressure from the alien object against her open wound.

"It makes no sense to clean it before pulling the arrow out," she muttered, gathering her long hair off of her back. "It will just bleed all over again."

Farkas growled his response, but ceased his procedure. With a streak of cold-heartedness shooting through him momentarily, he simply took hold of the remaining piece of arrow shaft and yanked.

With a sickening sound the arrow came free of her flesh, followed closely by a pained cry from its previous target. Farkas stopped, realizing what he'd done, that simple exclamation of agony snapping him out of his bout of icy demeanor.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly, his rough, husky tone softening in an attempt to convey his sincerity.

Azkari'a said nothing, her only coherent response being a slight rumble of acknowledgement.

So Farkas went back to cleaning, catching the blood now flowing in thick rivulets down her back. He tried to ignore how soft her skin felt under his fingers when he accidentally grazed it, keeping the one sane thought in his head: She is a killer, she is a killer, she is a killer…

Once the gash had been sufficiently tended to-the wound no longer bleeding but still open and angry-Farkas decided it was time to swallow his pride and move on to the one on her chest.

Azkari'a was starting at him as he readjusted his position to better access the last arrow, that dangerous ethereal gaze conveying every warning and threat she could have ever said out loud. Farkas stared back at her evenly, the stance of dominance unmistakable in his stormy eyes. It wasn't going to be comfortable for either of them, but Farkas had orders to follow. And orders could not be ignored, no matter how unapproachable the subject.

The arrow in her chest was not one he was willing to just yank out. Azkari'a's cry of pain still echoed in his mind, and although he had no favor for the dangerous she-wolf, he did not want to cause her pain in the coldhearted way that he had before. The arrow was embedded in the sensitive tissue of her breast, and he was betting that it would be twice as painful to remove.

The angle at which he had to work to clean the blood already clotting around the arrow shaft proved to be slightly more difficult than he had anticipated, having to do his task around the arm Az had slung across her breasts to preserve her modesty. But because asking her to move that arm would possibly result in losing his own body parts, he left it alone.

However, as Farkas continued to struggle with his task, Azkari'a seemed to realize the conflict of her position. With a sigh that was noticeably shaky, she dropped her arm, color creeping up beneath her golden-tinged skin.

Farkas forced himself not to falter in his work, distracting himself from the soft, heavy mounds now fully revealed to him. He fixed his focus on the blood now tracking down her chest in thick rivulets, catching the droplets in the linen cloth before they fell dangerously close to that temptingly pink bud at the peak of her breast. He swallowed a growl, catching himself once again.

"This is going to hurt," he warned, his voice dropping an octave against his wishes, creeping into that revealingly husky tone. Azkari'a's only response was a low begrudging rumble.

Wrapping his fingers tightly around the splintered shaft of the arrow, Farkas braced himself for the reaction he knew would follow its release from the flesh it had buried itself in. As gently as he could, he separated the arrow from her breast, pulling it swiftly out, bringing with it a current of fresh blood and a strangled cry of pain from Azkari'a.

Tossing the arrow into the basket with the other and the bloodied rags, Farkas began the cleaning process all over again. He pressed new cloths to the weeping gash, trying to ignore the way her perfect breasts heaved with every short, pained breath, and how his trousers suddenly felt too tight.

His breath of relief was unintentionally audible in the awkward space when the bleeding finally slowed and Azkari'a's supernatural healing process began. Getting up from the bed slightly faster than he had meant to, he snatched a spare shirt of his from a nearby chair and tossed it to the half-naked female on his bed.

"I don't care if it doesn't fit," he growled, seeing the retort in her gaze as she caught it, "It's better than walking around like that." He pointedly ignored gesturing directly to her… nakedness.

Azkari'a remained silent, sending him a silvery glare before tugging the dark cotton tunic over her head, rising blood still coloring her high cheekbones a soft pink. The shirt didn't even come close to fitting, hanging off her shoulders like some odd robe. Regardless, she still looked hauntingly sexy—something Farkas would continually deny to himself.

"My brother will be gone until sundown tomorrow," Farkas said, turning his eyes from her and scowling to himself. "Stay in his room for tonight."

Azkari'a rose from the bed with a growl. "I go where I please, Farkas," she retorted coldly, fangs shown in rebuke, "I will return home."

The Nord man turned to the bristling she-wolf, the usual blaze of aggravation returning to his storm-grey eyes. After the incredibly uncomfortable situation he had just placed himself in, he was in no mood to tolerate his previous patient's griping. "Unless you wish to ride back to whatever cave you live in at the middle of the night, wearing half your armor and a man's tunic, I suggest you consider my offer." His snarl was rough, pushing for dominance, his wolf howling at its restraints for him to put this arrogant she-beast in her place. Farkas shoved it down, figuring Kodlak would not take kindly to a fight erupting in his halls. Azkari'a continued to glare at him, a growl echoing in her throat, impervious as always to his dominant act.

"If I cared about what people think of me, I would be much less of the person I am now," she rumbled dangerously, her flickering eyes lashing at him. Feeling that her point had been thoroughly driven home, she gathered her punctured armor and stalked out.

Farkas snarled to himself, his wolf berating him for letting her just walk out and not forcing her to cow under him in submission. He scratched absently at his arms in distracted anger, his recently-grown claws tracking long red welts across his skin. "You're welcome," he muttered to the empty air, now tinged with the scent of lavender and irritated she-wolf.


	5. Wanted Blade

**~First of all, I want to thank those of you who have given me reviews. Your support is greatly appreciated. When I take over the world, I'll allow you to live and bake cookies and cheesecake for me forever. I'm so nice. :3**

**Short chapter today, sorry! I promise there's gonna be lots more action in upcoming chapters, and MAYBE a little smexy time (perhaps…if I'm bribed…*cough cough.*) :D**

**As usual, I don't own Skyrim, Bethesda does…but after I rule the world, it can be arranged otherwise. Heh heh.**

**-Cryptik**

Azkari'a's skin felt too hot, too tight, even as she slumped in the warm waters of her bath. The gentle spices of her incense provided no comfort to her frantic nerves, still recovering her lost dignity from the events that had transpired that night.

The removal of the arrows had been embarrassing, to say the least. Being a solitary wolf, she had never kept company with anyone, let alone a male. That being said, she had never revealed her body to another in such a way that she had to Farkas.

She glanced down at her chest, where the wound on the swell of her breast was naught but an angry red line. He had cleaned it well enough that her healing abilities had taken over rather quickly after the blockage of the arrows had been removed.

But the process itself… she could have done without. Az grumbled to herself, not willing to recall the gentle presses against her skin by the soft cloth, or how Farkas had seen to her needs without a complaint-at first. She growled again. She should have just taken the arrows out herself. She respected the harbinger's orders, but she did not think that he had been considering the uncomfortable situation he was thrusting upon her and Farkas.

He hadn't touched her intimately, no-she wouldn't have allowed it anyway. But she hadn't missed that look in his eyes, that burn of muffled desire he had tried to conceal behind a layer of glacial ice. It was that look that made her nerves writhe and her wolf snarl in warning. This man did not accept her, did not hold anything but contempt for her, and she for him threefold. He was a typical male, always seeking dominance, intent to push her around in any way he could. She would never allow it.

So why did that look, that tiny flame of lust, awaken a deeper, more primal part of her? One that lifted its head like a dragon roused from its centuries of slumber, smoke pulsing from its nostrils as it scented of that flame. She didn't know, but she vowed to keep it from uncoiling its scaly potency any further and stretching throughout her body.

Sleep evaded her; her eyes did not feel the heavy pull of drowsiness even as it crept into the early hours of the morning. She stayed in her vastly elaborate pool, gliding through the water like some magnificent fish-nymph, seeking solace from the earth-warmed liquid.

She had no plans for the next day, no targets on her hit list and no tasks to take care of. She had supposed that she could go and ask Kodlak for a solitary mission, but the thought of colliding with Farkas turned her immediately away from the idea.

However, as she caught a glance of her ruined armor tossed in a heap by the door, she figured a trip out would not be so terrible. She rethought for a moment, and decided to avoid Whiterun altogether.

Sunlight filtered through the morning clouds outside, the soft pale rays gracing her windows. The many candles in the room became redundant, but she left them burning, as they had all been lit by magical fire and the melting of the wax was of no concern.

Azkari'a lifted herself from the heated caress of the water, the droplets racing down her smooth skin and showering from her inky hair, which was plastered across her back in a midnight cascade. She ran gentle fingers through the fall, shaking the moisture out so it would dry. The sunlight tinged her golden skin a creamy yellow as it fell over her, as if helping to unveil a great goddess from her slumber amid the waters.

That 'great goddess' was to no great extent feeling like a goddess—she felt like a prisoner in her own mind. She couldn't escape the remembrance of the night or the hot ghost of a certain pair of hands across the sensitive skin of her chest. She shook her head, flinging more water droplets, curling her lip at her thoughts' persistence.

Wrapping herself in her exquisite silk robe, smelling pleasantly of lavender and frost and unpleasantly of stress, Azkari'a made her way out of the bath and towards her room to prepare for the day.

* * *

The road to Falkreath was thankfully barren, save for a few lone travelers. The small town was not a well-visited place to being with, but today it seemed that even the caravans had chosen different destinations. The ride was distractingly peaceful, Azkari'a thought as she rode down the dirt path, her frost-white horse settled in a comfortable jog as she guided him from his saddle. The elegant ivory stallion had been her close companion for the better part of four years-she'd raised him from a gangly colt to the magnificent beast he had become. She'd named him Aurox, a name long forgotten by time.

She carried her bow in her lap, as she always did on her travels in case of an ambush, her sword also sitting ready in its sheath on her hip. A quiver of wicked Daedric arrows rested at her back, waiting for the chance to sink into flesh. The deadly weapons matched her armor-a lighter, more feminine version of Daedric armor that she herself had painstakingly crafted to her ideal design. The blood-washed ebony plates had been carefully conformed and manipulated into an elegant yet deadly set of armor pieces that, when put together, transformed the wearer into a dangerous demoness of scarlet and midnight.

Azkari'a released the reins for a moment to adjust the silky fall of her hair under her helm, sweeping the raven cascade behind her absently as she scanned the surroundings. The mist-frothed forest seemed oddly calm, save for the random elk or deer, which quickly bolted away at the sound of Aurox's heavy hooves against the hard ground. However there was a considerable lack of trolls, bears, and those detestable spiders, which she had frequently confronted on her travels to Falkreath. The wolves were absent as well, although she never needed to worry about them.

Her guard was instantly doubled, the feeling of upset too much for her to ignore. Aurox had sensed his rider's unease, and had adopted a kind of high-stepping, anxious prance, his ears flicking every which way as he worried at the metal bit in his mouth. Azkari'a murmured soothingly to the horse, directing his attention back to her and soothing his choppy stride back to a steady jog. She urged him on, one hand on the reins and the other tightened around her bow.

The thatched roofs of the town came into view through the thick mist, the normal air of disparity integrating itself in the fog. The tinge of unease had crept in as well, a tainted streak in the gloom. The town was quiet, too quiet, Azkari'a noticed as she approached the entrance. At this time of morning, the children had normally awoken and were running about the streets, their jovial laughter rousing the other townspeople from their slumber. The mill, too, was usually active in the early hours, the harsh grind of the saw against the wood echoing throughout the sleepy town.

But today was somehow different, as if the sounds had been leeched from the hold by some unseen force, a great unknown beast of shadows and fog. The one lone guard at the gate nodded her through; her frost-white steed was not an easy beast to forget. She slowed him to a walk as she entered the small town, her eyes scanning the drifting mist expertly. The crows cawed raucously from the graveyard and the harsh sounds of a hammer against metal were the only sounds that met her ears among the silence that the fog carried around her.

Azkari'a reined Aurox to a halt outside of the blacksmith's workshop, sliding down from the saddle with a jingle of buckles and chains. She undid the ropes holding her damaged cuirass to the saddlebags, gathering the heap of mail and armor into her arms and heading for the steps of the smithy.

"Lod!" she called out to the rugged Nord man, who was determinedly hammering a piece of red-hot steel into shape on his anvil. The blacksmith looked up, momentarily distracted, and then noticed the exotic woman heading up his steps.

"Aye, lass, what can I do for you today?" he asked, setting his piece down in the shallow trough of water. The metal hissed and steamed as if in protest, sinking to the bottom where it gradually cooled. Lod seemed older today than he had normally, deep circles under his eyes and an almost wary expression on his face, as if a great nightmare had roused him from his slumber and was haunting him in the daylight hours.

Azkari'a held up the ebony bundle in her arms. "I need this repaired," she explained, transferring her armor into the waiting, calloused hands of the blacksmith. "Two holes-in the breastplate and the shoulder."

Lod turned the cuirass over in his arms, one supporting the heavy piece while the other roamed expertly over the jagged puncture mark in the chestplate, nodding to himself. "An easy fix, milady, if you've got the coin," he said, altering the armor so he could inspect the hole in the shoulder plate with fingers worn from years of work over the forge. "I must say that I have always admired this piece. Such expert work you do in that private forge of yours."

Azkari'a tossed a sack of gold onto the nearby workbench, the cost of the repairs of no concern to her. "It is one of my best sets of armor," she said, a tinge of pride in her honey-gold voice. "Although I regret not reinforcing it. I do not like how a simple steel arrow was able to pierce the ebony."

Lod nodded, more to himself than the woman before him, his fingers following the painstakingly detailed swirls of silver and gold embellishments hewn into the plates of the armor. "I'll have it ready for you in a few days, no problem at all."

The Nord woman nodded her thanks, then threw a glance behind her, the paranoia still pricking at her like a bur in her breeches. "Why has the town grown so quiet, Lod?" she asked the man, her voice dropping an octave. "It seems as though no one has risen."

The old blacksmith scowled before turning to set the armor down on his workbench. "Damn group of thugs came through here late last night," he grumbled darkly, "Yellin' and screamin' for us to 'give up the blade' or something of that sort. No one knew what the fuck they were talkin' about, so the group went around throwin' bottles and rocks and anything else they could find, promisin' beatings to anyone who showed their faces before sunrise."

Azkari'a froze-something about the blacksmith's account had struck her as familiar. "A blade?" she repeated, her elegant brows lifting in inquiry.

"Aye," Lod replied. "Some damned blade of Harkine, or somethin'. Never heard of the thing before."

The warrioress nodded slowly to herself, a crease forming on her brow in concentration, a hundred different thoughts running through her head. "My thanks and condolences, Lod," she called over her shoulder as she started swiftly for her horse. "I will return to pick up my armor in a few days."

The blacksmith lifted a hand in parting as the raven-haired woman vaulted onto her horse with an unusual show of grace, spurring the majestic white creature into a fast lope towards the road out of town.


	6. Conflict and Cooperation

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**Short chapter this time- I'M SO SORRY PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME AND MY PROCRASTINATION.**

**On the bright side, I have chapter 7 done already and it's three thousand words or so. So fear not, my loyal minions. :3 I shall give you something to read.**

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**Enjoy!**

Azkari'a knew she'd had a reason to acknowledge the agitation that had been prodding at her since she had ridden into Falkreath hold. Lod's recount of the midnight raid on the town had proven that feeling right, and now she needed to act on it.

She knew exactly what the old blacksmith was talking about when he had mentioned the 'blade of Harkine,' as he had called it. The true name, in all its glory, was the Blade of Hircine, and it was a hallowed weapon that the Silver Hand would bleed rivers to get their hands on.

All of these thoughts and more raced across her mind like blood-red dragonflies as she pushed Aurox faster across the terrain, heading straight for Whiterun and ignoring the paths completely. She had no time to stay to the winding, worn cobblestone trail that linked one hold with the other. If the Silver Hand were on the trail of the sacred blade, then she had no time for conformity.

This was a matter concerning the Companions, and all werewolves in general, so, Farkas be damned, Azkari'a would pass the information along in hopes of sending out strike teams to cut down the searching Silver Hand members. She herself would eradicate the threat if need be.

Aurox thundered over the landscape, his ears pricked as he ran full-out around rocky outcroppings and ragged trees. The horse was born to run, born to serve his mistress, and did so with enthusiasm that was uncommon in the lesser beasts. He carried his rider over miles of unstable terrain without so much as a single falter, heading for Whiterun at a ground-eating gallop.

The suffocating fog had lifted as the pair headed out of Falkreath hold, and the morning sky was now clearly visible. Azkari'a silently thanked all Nine Divines, as she would not have tried to maneuver the unpredictable shortcut to Whiterun while enshrouded in the heavy obscuring blanket of white mist. Her only concern now was to reach Jorrvaskr as fast as possible, and then set out again to either recover the blade from its hidden location, or reclaim it from the Silver Hand, if they had somehow already found it.

Aurox slowed slightly to pick his way down the side of a steeper ridge, his hooves scraping against the stones and sending them tumbling downward. Azkari'a trustfully allowed him to lead, knowing her horse would find a safe way down, and in the meantime she could survey the surroundings.

The city of Whiterun sat sleepily in the distance, Dragonsreach standing out like a huge jewel against the dull backdrop of the plains. The smoke from the Khajiit caravan's bonfire seemed like candle wisps from the distance Azkari'a viewed it, although her precise eyesight could pinpoint the little figures moving around outside the city walls.

Once Aurox's hooves met steady ground, the horse automatically jumped back into his rocking gallop, seeming to sense his mistress's urgency. He headed straight towards the city like a homing bird, ears flicked forward as if in anticipation. Azkari'a held onto his reins loosely, allowing the horse to have his head and carry them towards her intended destination. The two were nearly one in the same mind, alike in thought and goal, such as they had been seemingly since the horse came to her as a colt. Aurox's work would not be done once they reached Whiterun; Azkari'a intended to use the horse to chase down her prey.

The sage-flecked landscape of the plains blurred by her as Azkari'a rode on, Aurox's hooves coughing up clouds of dirt from the well-worn path. At the speed of the horse's ground-eating sprint, Whiterun was become closer and closer, the time and battle-worn walls appearing through the light haze of morning fog.

Soon enough the two were weaving up the winding path through the trading district, making for the gate with a distinct air of determination trailing with the dust behind them.

Azkari'a didn't even bother to rein Aurox to a complete halt before sliding off his back with practiced grace, her boots meeting the cobblestone as she headed straight for the gates. Aurox jolted to a halt, tossing his mane in protest. The guards at the gate seemed apt to complain at the huntress's placement of her stallion, but thought twice about it when she strode up and threw open the gates in a flurry of crimson and midnight.

Azkari'a paid no mind to the usual bustle of the city, ignoring the obnoxious children and the persuasive shouts of the street vendors trying to sell their wares. She was intent on one thing only, and nothing mortal would sway her path.

The doors of Jorvaskr bent to her will as well, her forceful arrival drawing the attention of everyone gathered inside the mead hall. She paid them no mind, her light armor clinking and jingling almost forebodingly. Unfortunately for Azkari'a's already pressured nerves, Farkas was the first Companion she encountered.

"Where is Kodlak?" she asked, or rather hurled the question in his direction. That fire was back in her silver eyes, and even Farkas was silenced into cooperation by her forceful stare.

"In is quarters, as usual. Why do you need him?" he replied gruffly, scrutinizing the raven-haired woman, taking in her determined, fiery glare and the tense set of her body under her unique Daedric armor.

She didn't even bother to answer his question, heading towards the door to the living quarters without a second glance in his direction. Predictably, Farkas's footsteps echoed behind her.

"I do not require an escort," she snarled over her shoulder, making another hurried entrance to the quarters and breezing down the long hall. Farkas didn't falter, even after the blow of her chilling tone.

"I do not take orders from you," he growled back simply.

Az snarled again but chose to ignore him. She had more impertinent matters to focus on.

Kodlak glanced up as the warrior wolves presented themselves before him like a powerful cyclone wind, raising an eyebrow at their expressions, namely the look of agitated urgency flickering on Azkari'a's face.

"We have a problem," she said before the old man could even greet her. "And it needs to be seen to as soon as possible."

A second grey eyebrow shot up on his brow at her imperativeness. "What problem might that be?" he asked, setting down his tankard of ale to give the belligerent she-wolf his full attention.

"The Silver Hand have learned of the Blade of Hircine," she relayed darkly, obsidian flickering in her silver eyes like flecks of a stormy night. "If they learn of its enchantment, our kind will be subject to death and a curse beyond all imagination."

Kodlak didn't have to ask to know that in saying 'our kind,' Az was not referring to the Nords. Although he knew little of the blade, there was a kind of ancient knowledge that burned in the she-wolf's metallic gaze, a wisdom that earned his utmost trust in her warning. "Very well," he said, brow furrowed in concern, "What do you propose we do?"

Behind Az, Farkas scoffed. "You aren't leaving the whole decision up to her, surely?" he asked bitterly, ignoring the warning snarl from the woman he spoke of.

The Harbinger gave him a clear look of disapproval. "No, Farkas, but since she is the one who presented this important information to me, I will hear her suggestions on how we should handle the matter." The authority in his tone suggested no chance of argument.

Farkas fell silent under the old man's pointed gaze, besides the small growl of disgruntled nerves that slipped from his throat. He knew Kodlak had a point; Azkari'a seemed to know a great deal more about the Blade than he or the Harbinger. He had never even heard of the thing before. With another light grumble, he waited for Az to speak.

"I know where the blade is…or was, if we are so unfortunate that the Silver Hand has reached it already," she said, the tense set of her shoulders suggesting her urgency to move on. "I can go and retrieve it if it is still there, so I may place it under higher safeguards."

"And if it is gone?" Kodlak proposed, his fingertips pressed together against his chin in consideration.

"Then I will track the thieves and kill them. I believe I have already proven that the Silver Hand are no match for me."

Behind her, Farkas made a derisive noise in his throat, obviously recalling the numerous arrows that he himself had removed from her body the night she had returned from the hunt. Azkari'a ignored him, not wishing to recall the memories from that night.

The old wolf sat back, seeming to consider the Nord woman's plan deeply. "Very well," he said finally, "You seem to have considerable knowledge on our problem. I will send out separate groups to hopefully intercept any Silver Hand members searching for the blade on an opposite path."

Azkari'a nodded, her dangerous expression seemingly placated at his acceptance. This was what she had been hoping for-added support from the Companions so she would not have to traverse numerous paths in her quest.

The harbinger's next orders, however, stopped her plan dead in its tracks.

"You and Farkas should head out as soon as possible; now would be the best," Kodlak said, a strange glint in his wise eyes as if he was daring one of them to protest. "Taking down any issues you may encounter will be much easier if you travel together."

Azkari'a's jaw dropped open, her elongated lower canine teeth showing clearly in her disbelief. Farkas's expression mirrored hers, storm-grey eyes harder than Skyforge steel.

"I do not require an accomplice," Az seethed, her voice thick with black ice.

"Nor do I want to be it," Farkas added, the curl of his lip evident in his tone.

Kodlak eyed the two calmly. "If you are to be with the Companions, you will need to learn to work and fight with all of your shield-siblings," he said to Azkari'a evenly before turning to Farkas. "You have been here long enough to know that cooperation is vital to our success as a guild. Ysgramor himself knew this when he formed our great faction."

Azkari'a's jaw shut with an audible snap and she turned angrily, still very much dissatisfied with the arrangement-yet seeing enough logic in the situation to thwart any further protest. "Just stay out of my way," she snarled lowly to Farkas as she stalked out, Nightbyter already drawn and ready by her side.

Farkas retorted with a snarl of his own but otherwise said nothing, following the seething she-wolf out of the chambers with disdain in his every step.

Kodlak watched the tense pair storm out of the hall, a wise glint in his eyes.


	7. Crimson Snow, Scarlet Teeth

**Seeeee? This one's longer! (That's what she said.) **

**I promise things are gonna get a little more convoluted in the next few chapters, so stay with me! I WON'T LET YOU LEAVE ANYWAY!**

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"Can't that hulking beast of yours travel any faster?" Azkari'a shouted over her shoulder as Aurox galloped over the plains with carefree abandon, his ears pricked forward and his graceful stride high and hopeful.

"You won't be throwing insults when that son-of-a-bitch stallion collapses underneath you!" Farkas snapped back from his position several feet behind her, his big brown gelding striving to keep up with the steed in front of him.

Azkari'a's answering laugh was thick with cold mocking and sarcasm. Aurox was born to run, and the phantom-white stallion showed it in every graceful stride he took. He would not tire anytime soon.

The two riders had been throwing insults back and forth since they had departed from Whiterun, their shouting only interrupted by the flying of arrows when they were intercepted by some wild beast looking to attack. After the offender was downed, the jibes and sarcasm would resume, usually involving one's criticism of the other's combat skills or an order not followed.

Orders not followed seemed to be a hot subject on their mission. Farkas would command that the pair follow a certain path or trail, and Azkari'a would respond by going a completely opposite direction. Then an argument would ensue, and carry on as they raced across the vast expanse of Whiterun's plains.

The blue-grey mountains loomed before them, capped with snow and dark-bellied clouds. Those mountains were riddled with strongholds and ancient Nord crypts, as well as the resting place of the Blade of Hircine. Their destination was a day's ride from Whiterun, far out in the glacier-scarred mountains past Windhelm.

Judging by the crude insults being flung back and forth, it was going to be a very long, tense ride.

* * *

Dusk had coated the landscape when the two riders decided to stop for the night, making camp at the foothills of the mountains right in the face of a gathering storm. Whiterun's sage-coated plains had been consumed by snow and evergreens, the dark green and brown needles scattered over the frosting of white snow and the grey of the rocks.

They chose a spot under the shelter of a small cluster of coniferous trees-after several moments of heated debate. Farkas did not really get a say in the matter, as Azkari'a, per usual, did exactly what she wanted regardless of his opinion. She had ridden into the thicket before he had even finished his argument, irritated arrogance trailing in her wake.

The two unpacked the camp in terse silence, unloading the rolled-up tents from the horse's backs and very deliberately placing their sleeping arrangements as far from one another as possible. Farkas stoked the fire with dry wood he collected among the winter-thrashed trees, blatantly ignoring Azkari'a as she lurked in the shadows, searching. Searching for what, he didn't know, and didn't care enough to ask her.

The defiant female had tested every nerve he possessed over the course of the journey. Their seemingly endless ride over the plains had consisted of little-to-no cooperation, whatsoever; Kodlak's plan of teaching them to get along with one another seemed to be backfiring dramatically.

He saw the old man's point, of course, but how could he possibly cooperate with a she-wolf who had no interest in following any order he gave, unless it was directly beneficial to her? As admittedly beautiful as Azkari'a was, her belligerent and alpha-wolf attitude made a shadow over the appeal she might have held for him.

The she-wolf now stalked among the wintery darkness, making no sound despite her armor. From her position at the edge of the evergreen thicket, she had a clear view across the white-frosted plains, and with that came the ability to spot any stray torchlights or magelights. Her silver eyes flickered eerily in the darkness, reflecting the frayed nerves she felt within her.

The only thing she and Farkas could agree on was the fact that their mission was turning out to be the most aggravating quest either had ever been on. She had thwarted the man's every attempt at asserting his dominance, ruthlessly cutting them down at every opportunity. He had berated her endlessly for her lack of subordination, to which she would simply reply with 'I'll no submit, even when I lay dead on the pyre.' Farkas was showing every inch of his male werewolf ego, and Az was having none of it.

The wind had picked up as the moon crested the sky, tossing both falling and fallen snow across the plains. Azkari'a shivered slightly, chilled with even her Nord and werewolf blood, and considered heading back to the camp to warm herself by the fire. But then she quickly thought better of sharing space with Farkas. Instead, she reached for the beast lurking inside her and allowed it to take over.

As the black tendrils of wild magic wrapped around her, midnight black fur shot through with silver swept over her changing body, thicker over her neck and back and her long, flowing tail. Her silver eyes burned in the night, the pupil widening with abysmal blackness to become that of a true wolf's. Long, deadly ebony claws extended from her fingertips like blades from their sheaths, prepared to tear and kill.

When the powerful werewolf stood in the place of the lithe Nord woman, she shook her thick mane, satisfied and free, and released a chilling howl from her throat. The sound rolled across the snow-swept plains, tossed and carried by the wind. Far in the distance, the natural wolves answered, raised from their slumber to respond to the call of their supernatural superior.

Not even looking back to see if Farkas would oppose her shift, Azkari'a bolted into the whirling snow, collecting scents and from the chaotic wind. Her stomach ruled her senses; she had not eaten much previously that day.

After several minutes of following trails through the snow banks and rock quarries, the huntress came upon a group of bandits seeking shelter under a natural overhang in the foothills. There were four of them, three men and a woman, dressed in fur armor and huddled around a barely-thriving campfire. Two slept smothered in bed rolls; the other two kept a miserable guard in the dead of the night.

The stalking she-wolf made no sound as she ghosted through the trees, eyes intent on her midnight meal. The snow crunched hollowly underneath her heavy paws, but it was carried away by the angry blizzard wind.

Her muscles bunched in preparation, rolling under her supple black coat-turned white by the whirling snow. Ebony claws flexed into the ground in anticipation, aching to replace the dirt and snow with flesh and bone.

With a snarl building in her throat, she leapt out of hiding, sailing through the air with preternatural grace and precision, a predatory gleam in her silver eyes. She let the beast rule and it reveled in its control, snarling in delight as her claws sank into the back of the first bandit-her first victim. Blood burst from the wounds through the jagged holes in the armor, followed closely by a horrid scream and the panicked shout of "Werewolf!" from the other bandit. His second cry was cut short as Azkari'a dislodged her claws from the first man to catch the flailing sword of the other, tossing it out of his grasp with a sickening crack of dislocating bones. She tackled its wielder to the ground, her fangs sinking into the tissue and muscle of his neck and she reveled in the warm wave of blood that flooded her mouth. She tore chunks out of her prey's torso with feral delight, bones crunching under her steel-trap pressure of her powerful jaws.

The other bandits had been roused from their slumber by the sounds of massacre-this was brought to Azkari'a's attention when she felt the harsh bite of an arrow as it sank into her back. Whipping her head up from her gruesome meal, she snarled, spotting the two remaining bandits pressed up against the rock wall. Bloodlust burned in her wild ethereal eyes, her muzzle bathed in scarlet gore. Tossing the mangled corpse below her off to the side, she released a blood-chilling roar that split the night even through the howling wind. Fear clutched her victims and they froze, giving Az just enough time to launch herself towards them. With a simple swipe of her claws the rock was spattered with the blood of her first victim's chest, his sternum cleaved open through his armor. He fell to the floor in a broken heap, his life flowing out of him in rivers, staining the snow with crimson. The werewolf turned to the remaining bandit, blood-reddened fangs bared in a fierce snarl. Wet scarlet spattered her face from her muzzle to the tips of her ears, gory makeup that created the image of a true nightmare.

The bandit could not even raise her bow before the she-wolf was upon him, her death-dealing jaws closing over her neck. With a sickening crack she bit down, silencing the woman's screams of terror forever as the blood gurgled out from the gaping wounds.

After that the only sounds were the howling wind and the sickening sounds of a feeding werewolf. She did not bother with neatness in her feast, tearing apart armor and stripping flesh away to divulge in the meat underneath. She made quick work of the corpses, ravenously devouring the most succulent areas before moving on.

Her wolf hummed with delight as the warm blood of her prey bathed her insides with delicious sustenance and her belly filled with meat. The beast sat back; contented, at least, for now.

When her feast was complete and her lust for blood had been sated, she rose from her kill to scent the tumultuous wind. Leaving the torn, bloody bodies behind, she trotted to a snow bank to clean her muzzle of gore.

Satisfied, she took off into the snow-swept night.

* * *

Farkas paced around the cozy campsite, his movement shadowed by the glow of the fire as he wore a path in the snow that had coated the ground. Azkari'a had been gone for over an hour. He had no way of knowing if she had been killed, or captured, or had just run off to spite him. Knowing Az, it had been the latter, but he continued to pace restlessly nonetheless. They were supposed to resume their journey at the break of dawn, and if Azkari'a decided spend the night roaming the foothills in a snowstorm, their progress would surely suffer.

He growled to himself, passing the she-wolf's empty tent. The horses, tethered to a fallen log and dozing under their thick blankets, kept their ears turned to the North, focused on sounds even in their light sleep.

Farkas debated over saddling Voxas-his big brow gelding-and ride out into the storm to find the belligerent wolf, but driving the horse through a whirling snowstorm in the middle of the night would prove tiresome to the beast, come morning. Of course there was always the option of shifting himself and tracking Azkari'a down, but that would mean leaving the camp and their supplies unattended.

He snarled again. Fine, he thought, let her find her own way back. His decision firmly implanted in his mind, he ducked down and crawled inside his tent, buried himself in his furs and bed roll, and waited for sleep to find him.

* * *

Azkari'a loped over the snowy foothills, her black and silver pelt a splotch of unusual color among the canvas of white and grey. After having quenched her desire for food, she was following her own trail back to the camp.

The whirling snow flung any lingering scents into the night, never to be found again. The falling snow rapidly covered any tracks or trails, erasing paths under a white bath of ice. Azkari'a was relying on something much more metaphysical than scents or tracks. Her adept sense of clairvoyance was nearly tripled in her werewolf form, her instincts leading her along an invisible string towards her target as if she had a mental compass.

The world seemed like an endless wash of white and grey; the black sky above was barely visible through the angry rolling storm clouds and the windblown snow. But still Az pressed on, intent on reaching the warmth of camp to sleep off her meal.

She spotted something then, standing out against the white with an even brighter white, almost ethereal in its incandescence. The she-wolf paused in her determined stride, sliding to a halt beside the rise of a snow bank. Her ears swiveled back and forth, nose twitching as she tried to discern something of the figure.

However, she couldn't even fully assess the situation before she felt that familiar pull, that urge to walk forward towards the ghostly white figure in the snow. Her paws moved as if controlled by another, carrying her across the wind-thrashed hills towards the one who seemed to draw her like a moth to a flame.

She knew what she would find; a white stag, glowing with otherworldly light-the incarnate form of the Daedric prince Hircine.

"Azkari'a. My favorite beast of the moon." The deep, rolling voice tinged with growling wickedness drifted through the she-wolf's mind as she approached, holding her captive just as effectively as his beckoning call. "You have not performed your duties. Are you being disloyal to your lord?"

Now standing in front of the massive stag, she rose onto her hind paws. Still he stood taller, the full rack of jagged antlers on his head making him seem all the more mighty. "No, lord Hircine," she said, her words low and growling in the tongue of the beast. "I have been working with the Companions to eradicate the Silver Hand. They threaten your blade as we speak."

The great stag's white gaze never wavered. "I am aware of this," he replied emotionlessly. "I have no doubt that you will successfully retrieve it. However, your personal affairs may not intervene with your tasks."

Azkari'a bowed her head, tail lowered in submission. She had learned early on that a fallen god's wrath was better left unprovoked. "Yes, Lord Hircine," was all she said.

The stag drew his head up in satisfaction. "Very good," he rumbled. His gaze turned to the moons above, their glow muffled by the maelstrom of snow. "You have two days to destroy your next targets."

With that, the prince vanished, his ethereal form carried away by the swirling snow.

Released from Hircine's intangible grip, Azkari'a shook her head, then resumed her trek back to camp.

Little did she know, Hircine would not be the last figure in the night that she would encounter.

* * *

Farkas was roused from his light, restless slumber by a sound out of place from the howling wind and snorts of the horses. It was like a coughing pant, almost a whine, sounding from somewhere in or near the camp.

Grabbing hold of his greatsword, the Nord extracted himself from his bedroll and crawled out of his tent.

Night still coated the camp with shadows, but there was no mistaking the silver gleam of a predator's eyes from across the dying fire. Farkas's anger came rushing out from behind his drowsiness.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he snarled harshly, striding across the snow and towards the she-wolf crouched below one of the pine trees. A low, forced growl was his answer; not in communication, just a warning.

As he drew closer, however, he could tell something was wrong. Azkari'a, still in her beast form, was not crouched low to the ground simply because she was aiming for stealth or intimidation. She seemed to almost be bracing herself against the snowy dirt, as if she could not fully stand, her ears drooped low with her head. As Farkas looked closer, he saw the dark scarlet matting her inky fur. Blood.

"What in Talos's name happened to you?" he asked incredulously, running a hand through his hair while gesturing to her mangled state with his sword.

"Vampire," she rumbled, raspy exhaustion clearly displayed in her beast's tone. "Vampire lord. Damned life-leeches." She stumbled a bit, nearly falling to the snow beneath her.

She didn't need to elaborate; Farkas understood immediately. Vampire lords were deadly creatures, able to drain the blood and life energy from their targets with claws and fangs and magicka. They could be killed, given that one had the proper training, but usually not without serious injury.

"Divines…" Farkas swore, running a hand through his black mane again in exasperation. "This wouldn't have happened if you had stayed here!" Even as he snapped at her, he supported the drained werewolf as she staggered to her tent. "Do not change back. You will not have enough energy as a human."

Azkari'a could barely lift her lip to growl at him, collapsing onto the pile of furs once inside her tent. "I needed to hunt," she growled, her mouth falling open to pant in exhaustion, her long white fangs tinged red with blood.

Farkas didn't argue, instead focusing on stopping the blood seeping from the many lacerations that had not yet closed. She had a number of them on her shoulders and arms-it looked as though she had met the vampire head-on. Several of the cuts had been shallow enough so that they had already healed; now they were only angry red lines underneath her fur.

"Did you kill it?" Farkas asked gruffly as he worked, pulling off strips of cloth from one of the nearby rags. He paid close attention to the rise and fall of her chest-she was still breathing, shallowly.

"Yes."

The answer didn't surprise him. A wolf who could take down a whole town of guards would have no issues with one lone vampire lord.

Eventually he managed to sop up the mess of blood coating her fur, a pile of bloody rags at his feet. Azkari'a had seemingly fallen asleep, her lip slightly curled as if frozen in a pained snarl. He reassured himself that she was indeed only sleeping, her chest still rising with now-heavy breaths, before tossing the rags outside and drawing up her furs around her sleeping body. The snowstorm still raged outside in the black of night, and he did not want her to freeze should she happen to shift back and lose the protection of her coat.

Despite the fact that this very female had been the subject of Farkas's vexation that night, he did not want to leave her in her unstable condition. So, setting his sword at the entrance of the tent, Farkas leaned against one of the sturdy poles and prepared for a long night of uncomfortable sleep.


	8. Cryptwalkers

**-Hai there! Here's a longer chapter for you guys. Merry Happy Cookie Day. :3**

**And MOAR sexual tension! :D**

**Enjoy, review and favorite!**

**-Cryptik**

* * *

With the morning came a peaceful calm, sunlight touching the fresh, settled snow outside. The snowstorm had at last subsided, leaving behind a sparkling canvas of white.

Farkas blinked awake, squinting outside briefly to survey the conditions and take in his surroundings. Dawn had broken over the foothills, the new rays of sunlight filtering through the trees surrounding the clearing. Stray snow flurries drifted from the branches now and then.

He glanced down to remove the thick furs from his lap... And nearly had a heart attack.

Splayed out on the ground, pressed against his legs on her side and as naked as the day she was born, was Azkari'a. She had shifted back to her human façade sometime during the night, the faded red lines crisscrossing her arms showing that her accelerated healing had worked its wonders. The furs covered her from her hips down, her long, silky black hair fanned across the blankets like spilled ink. Her eyes were still closed in peaceful slumber, oblivious to Farkas's stunned gaze. His own eyes betrayed him as they trailed across the soft golden expanse of her back, the seductive curve of her waist and the heavy rise of her full breasts as she breathed deeply in her sleep. Chastising himself, he dragged his wandering gaze from the intoxicating, dangerous she-wolf, pulling the furs off his legs to cover her. Not wanting to acknowledge the growing tension in his trousers, he crawled out of the tent and away from the taboo of Azkari'a.

As admittedly sexy as she was, Farkas would die before he bedded a murderer.

His movement roused Azkari'a from her dreamless sleep, stretching idly under the warmth of the soft furs. A dull ache still haunted her limbs, bringing back remembrance of the previous night.

The vampire had come out of nowhere, half-starved and willing to attack whatever crossed its path. Az happened to be its first target-and its last. After a long battle between wolf and vamp, Azkari'a had succeeded in ripping the monster's head from its shoulders. Drained of energy and much of her life force, she'd dragged herself back to the camp in the middle of the snowstorm.

She remembered-vaguely-Farkas's healing. The beast had been in control of the majority of her mind, brought forth from the weakness of her human side.

Frowning, the raven-haired she-wolf sat up, pulling a thick deerskin blanket around her as she became aware of her nudity. When had she changed back? Her nostrils flared, detecting Farkas's scent lingering around the tent. How much had he seen?

Azkari'a crawled out of the tent, keeping the blanket wrapped tight around her to guard against the settled cold and the revelation of her naked body. Farkas was on the opposite side of the camp, eating something from the cooking pot and ignoring Az's emergence into the morning.

Disregarding the bite of the snow as she walked to retrieve her armor, Az returned his cold shoulder with one of her own.

Obviously, today's journey would be just the same as yesterday's.

* * *

The two set off with the rise of the sun, riding in silence across the snow-covered foothills. Azkari'a's heavy limbs had long been eased; her supernatural healing process had ensured her rapid recovery.

Where the previous day's ride had been punctured by flying insults and criticism, the current one was plagued by arrogant silence; both riders seemed to refuse to acknowledge the other's presence. Nature quickly took over, filling the silence with the sound of birds and insects, and even the distant roar of a dragon. The rhythmic thunder of the horses' hooves and their heavy breaths joined with the sounds of the untamed world.

The two werewolves urged the horses onward, wishing to accomplish the tension-wracked task as soon as possible.

Strangely enough, they had not encountered any Silver Hand groups on their travel; they did not ride on the roads but stuck to the natural openness of Skyrim's wilds. The werewolf hunters hid elusively in tucked-away caves and rundown forts and mines, away from the frequented roads. Farkas and Azkari'a seemed to both secretly hope for a confrontation; few werewolves would pass up the opportunity to slaughter their hunters.

They still had several miles to go before reaching their destination, although they both felt certain that they would reach the crypt long before the sun began to set. Neither wanted to pick through the tombs when night fell.

Especially with the rise of the full moons.

That night, both silver orbs would sail above Skyrim in their full beauty-and for werewolves, their full power.

Not only did the moons bring heightened abilities, but it also shook the control over the beasts that lurked within them. Werewolf kills sailed in numbers during the full moon nights, when unwary travelers naively wandered out of safety's clutches and into the waiting claws of the wolves.

Neither Az nor Farkas wanted to chance losing control when such a valued prize was at stake-Hircine's Blade.

The horses were forced to slow as the mountains began to rise from the foothills, their hooves scoring rocks as they picked their way up the ridges. Few mountains had paths cut into them, so the animals were depending on their riders to guide them safely upwards. Said riders remained in silence, Azkari'a pushing Aurox ahead while a begrudging Farkas trailed behind.

The sun peaked in the sky by the time the two riders had scaled the mountains to the point where they appeared like tiny dots against the snow-splashed stone. Granite and slate blocks, unnatural to the ridges, had begun to decorate the barely-visible path, betraying the proximity to the crypt.

A dragon's roar shook the stone beneath the horses' hooves several times, making the animals snort and balk anxiously. Farkas insisted that they stop and prepare to either fight or flee, but Azkari'a shook her head firmly and pressed Aurox onward. Of course, the spurred on a whole new round of quarrelling over dominance, finally breaking the terse silence. In the end Az didn't give him the option of staying behind to fight the great scaly beast-it was either risk separation or Farkas had to swallow his pride. Wisely, he chose the latter.

At one point, when the snow had become much more than just white patchwork on the rocks and shrubs, scents of rot and rust began to tinge the air. The crypt was close, and Azkari'a was more anxious than ever.

Her wolf was restless, despite having been sated with a hunt and a run the night before. The moons, soon to ascend into the sky, were calling her beast, beckoning it to rise to the surface and revert to the most primal of instincts.

It was something Azkari'a did not want to deal with in the confining, trap-riddled chambers of the crypt.

Farkas too was feeling his beast grow hungry for release. His, however, had a craving for something slightly different than Azkari'a's. Something that Farkas, in his rational mind, would not allow: to force the belligerent female in front of him to acknowledge his dominance.

Farkas was raised as a true Nord-fight to defend your honor, but mind your manners to defend your respect. So, needless to say, he was not about to grab Az by the throat and force her onto her back beneath him. His inner wolf found this extremely frustrating.

By the time the moons rose, Farkas hoped to be as far away from the feral female as possible.

Finally, huge stone monoliths came into view, rising out of the mountain cliffs like darkened bones. The stone was cracked and rough, the inscriptions and runes worn down to near nothing by the elements. Shards of already-toppled monoliths littered the snow-spattered ground, some overtaken by the twisted roots of half-dead trees. A single torch burned in the shadows, illuminating a mouth-like hole in the mountainside.

The werewolves halted the horses under an overhanging ledge, protecting them from high-elevation winds and detection by the dragon, which still sailed the sky nearby. Within moments both warriors had dismounted, gathered their necessary gear, and were heading towards the entrance of the crypt.

"I know where the blade is," Azkari'a said lowly, her midnight sword in one hand and the other empty. "I will lead."

Farkas snorted. "You could just tell me where to go," he growled. "This is a Companions mission, and I rank higher than you."

Azkari'a flat-out ignored the statement, aside from muttering something like 'get your head out of your ass.' She set off into the gloom, disregarding the torch on the wall. Farkas snarled derisively, trudging behind her and grabbing the torch from its sconce. His beast paced within its rickety cage, howling and growling for release.

The torch turned out to be unneeded; as Farkas waded into the darkness of the tunnel, a light flared to life ahead of him. Azkari'a waited outside a heavy steel door, a ball of illumination hanging in midair beside her head like a loyal pet.

"You didn't tell me you used magic," Farkas accused, eyes fixed on the star-like orb. "You're a Nord, not an elf."

"I do not tell you much of anything," the she-wolf retorted coldly. "It is good to have a backup if sword and shield should fail."

The man fell silent, not able to think of a decent response.

The light flickered as Az manipulated the orb to hover near the lock of the door. A strange set of grooves and notches were set into a circle of ebony, inscribed with runes that Farkas did not recognize. Azkari'a, however, knew them fluently-Daedric.

She removed one of her gauntlets, tucking it into the belt of her sword's sheath. Her claws sprang from her fingertips, deadly black weapons nearly two inches long. Her knuckles popped as she stretched her fingers, aligning her claws with the notches and grooves in the door. She pressed them in-they clicked, and the ebony circle turned.

The door swung open and Az retracted her claws, pulling her gauntlet back on and grasping the hilt of Nightbyter. She released her magic in favor of the shield strapped to her back, the little ball of light evaporating. The shield matched her armor-layered in overlapping black and crimson scales, and edged with dark steel sharpened to a razor blade.

"Draugr dwell within these chambers," the warrioress warned, "If they are not awake already, kill them before they rise."

Farkas rolled his shoulders carelessly with a grunt, gripping his steel greatsword with gloved hands. "I've fought Draugr before," he grumbled, heading into the decrepit chamber beyond the unlocked door.

The two quarreled for the lead as they traversed the tunnels, arguing over dominance like two natural alpha wolves. Luckily, their anger towards one another fueled their aggression towards their enemies. Draugr rose and then fell, cut through with a flurry of ebony or steel. In between traversing the burial chambers, thrusting blades through Draugr as they awoke, the two were snarling and snapping at each other's heels.

Farkas, wiping dusty blood from his face, reached for a shimmering garnet hidden against a pile of linen wraps. He was halted, however, by a sharp snarl of rebuke from behind him

"Do not take anything!" Azkari'a hissed, fangs bared in warning at him. "Do not disrespect Hircine's territory!" Her silver eyes flashed ominously in the dull gloom tossed around by the torches' glow.

Farkas growled back at her, his own elongated fangs glinting. "Hircine is not here, and he does not hold territory in Skyrim! It belongs to the Nine!"

A low, raspy groan broke the argument, after which Azkari'a swept the crimson gem off the table and out of sight. With a snarl of challenge, she bolted off in the direction of the sounds. Farkas followed, yellow fire creeping into the storm grey of his eyes.

The pair made their way through several more burial rooms and offering chambers, pausing when necessary to slay the undead that walked within. The chambers were musty and mottled with mold, underground lichens retaking the cracked stone. Torches flickered with enchanted fire, casting ominous shadows over the walls.

At one point a large wooden door obstructed their progression. At it, Azkari'a halted, falling silent.

"We are not alone," she breathed, silver eyes narrowing.

"Of course not," Farkas replied, his voice a low growl behind Az. "There have been Draugr in every room."

"I mean hunters, ice brain." Her rebuttal was more of a snarl this time. "The Silver Hand."

The Nord man curled his lip. "Then we go in and fight," he muttered, "And try to be careful. I don't want to have to carry you out of here on my back."

Az snarled at him harshly. "We will find out who needs to be carried." With that, she threw the doors open.

Surprised shouts were the first thing that met them as the two warriors burst into the room, Silver Hand members leaping up from chairs and bedrolls to grab their weapons. Azkari'a disemboweled the nearest one in an instant, ebony meeting flesh through the flimsy robes of the hunter. The man crumbled to the ground, his insides spilling onto the floor through an enormous gash in his stomach. Ice spikes flew past Az's head and she snarled, targeting the mage crouched against a stack of sarcophagi. Unsheathing Blackfyre, her rune-encrypted dagger, she tossed it with the practiced aim of a professional. The blade struck the skull of the mage before she could discharge her next spell, spraying the coffins with glistening crimson.

Farkas roared from somewhere across the chamber, abandoning his sword in favor of the claws that had sprung forth from his fingertips. Knocking a silver sword from the enemy's hands, he grabbed the man and tore his arms from his torso with a resounding crack and the sickening rip of flesh. The nearly feral Nord tossed the still-twitching body to the corner, snatching up his greatsword to dispatch another mage that was pelting him with frost.

Azkari'a's beast howled in delight as blood bathed her body and turned the chamber stones scarlet. She released a roar of pure relish from her throat as she withdrew Nightbyter from the abdomen of the hunter she pinned against the wall, the victim of her rage slumping against the stones, not quite dead yet. Her teeth, glistening white and razor-sharp, found the neck of the writhing woman and bit down. Hot scarlet blood coated her chin as she chewed; not drinking, just reveling in the feeling of her adversary's life spilling down her face and turning her crimson armor even darker.

A group of three hunters rushed through the door to the opposite side of the chamber, arrows announcing their arrival. Azkari'a let her previous opponent drop to the ground before turning her wicked silver eyes on the new threat.

"Filthy beasts!" one of them cried out, charging the female werewolf with sword raised. "We will cleanse this land of your abomination in the name of the Nine!"

Azkari'a saw the silver sword flashing for her neck-but she also saw Farkas, a feral roar tearing from his throat, dark tendrils beginning to overtake him.

"Farkas, no!" she yelled, parrying the blow from the Silver Hand at the same time as she was watching her companion turn from man to beast.

His transformation meant that one blow from one of the silver weapons would cost him dearly.

The massive black werewolf landed on the back of Az's attacker like a snarling ton of boulders, teeth and claws tearing through the robes of his prey. The life bled out quickly from the man as the wolf tore every available piece of flesh to shreds. Azkari'a battled the second hunter, locking blades once, twice, three times before swinging her dagger around to pierce the man's skull and crack it like an egg.

But neither beast nor woman saw the third hunter.

His sword flashed as it cleaved the air, intent on Azkari'a. The warrioress could not dodge it in time, her blade still tangled with the dying hunter. She turned her back to the oncoming blade so the shield strapped to her back could take the brunt of the blow.

Farkas got there first.

He blocked the attack of the sword from Az, a roar thundering from between his bloodied maw. His clawed hand reached for the attacker's arm, snapping it downward. But the inertia was still there, and Farkas, in his primal state, did not anticipate the sword heading for his legs.

The bite of the silver into his flesh had Farkas howling in rage and agony, his claws sinking into the torso of his attacker. Firmly held in place by the wounded werewolf, the man struggled-before his attempts at escape were quickly cut off by Azkari'a's wicked, ever-present sword. The man fell to the ground, decapitated; his head rolled off into the shadowy corner of the room.

Farkas grunted and whined, dislodging his claws from the headless torso. He stumbled on his injured leg, a long, deep slash on his thigh weeping bright scarlet blood, matting the black fur. He fell onto all fours, almost mimicking Azkari'a's exhausted stance from the previous night.

The she-wolf dropped Nightbyter, ignoring as it clattered to the ground in a pool of blood. The sword had been bathed in crimson before-once more wasn't going to hurt it. Az jumped to Farkas's side, disregarding the warning growl he threw in her direction.

"This is not going to heal if you do not lick it," she said, tracing her fingers lightly over the wound. The werewolf made a low rumble in his throat, his narrowed, burning yellow eyes on the huntress kneeling beside him. "You know our saliva has healing agents, Farkas. This wound was made by silver. It will not heal on its own, and we have no healing potions."

The enormous wolf turned his head downward, attempting to reach the wound on his thigh. His tongue flicked out briefly-but he did not have the flexibility to lick at the cut. His accusing eyes went to Azkari'a again._ I can't reach it. My neck does not bend that way._

Az scowled. "What use are you if you cannot even heal yourself?" She prodded at the weeping slash again, ignoring his snarl. "I do not know a healing spell powerful enough to fully heal this. You will either have to go on with a half-open wound, or we will need to find another solution."

Farkas gazed at her expectantly.

She shrugged. Reaching for her magicka, she murmured the words for her minor healing spell. Golden energy burst from her palms, surrounding Farkas and centering on the gash in his leg. The spell was not powerful enough to close the wound, and it would continue to bleed and cause him pain as he moved. But at least it would not be as large and painful as it was before she began to heal him-as she watched, the flesh at the edges of the cut began to knit back together, lessening the blood flow.

Her magic ceased when the wound would heal no further. She sat back, brow furrowed. The cut was far from healed. "That is all I can do," she grumbled, passing a hand over her forehead where sweat had started to collect beneath her light helm.

Farkas growled at her. _Lick it yourself,_ he suggested gruffly, his muscles bunching as he put weight on his hind paw and found it very uncomfortable._ I refuse to go through this damned crypt as a half-cripple._

Az lifted a lip, showing him curved, threatening white fangs. "That is a very unwise idea," she snarled. "I do not want to shift with the moons this close to rising. That was your stupid mistake that landed you in this… predicament. And I will not lick your hairy leg in this form."

The wounded werewolf growled again. _Then I will shift._

Before Azkari'a could stop him, the change was taking over, wrapping the wolf in those black tendrils of wild magic. His form altered, losing the fur and the claws so that beast became man once again. Naked and bleeding, Farkas crouched in front of Azkari'a-his eyes still a burning yellow, a symbol of the beast waiting just below the surface of humanity.

Az stared back in cool annoyance.

"You cannot be serious," she said lowly, a warning glimmering dangerously in her silver eyes.

"You are the one who said it needed to be healed."

"You are the one who insisted that it needs to be healed right now."

Farkas grunted. "It's your fault for not bringing healing potions."

"It is your fault that you do not have a long enough tongue!"

Farkas continued to glare at her expectantly.

She glared right back. "I could just leave you here whilst I go retrieve the blade," she growled. Farkas said nothing, but the look in his eyes said that she'd never hear the end of his griping if she did so.

"Fine," she snapped, kneeling to be eye-level with the bloody gash along the other werewolf's thigh. Although the edges had begun to close thanks to her magic, the poison of the silver that festered in the wound prevented it from being fully healed.

A the saliva of werewolves contained a powerful healing agent that helped to force the blood to coagulate and clot, which in turn helped to close the wound. Werewolves healed supernaturally fast anyway, but the deadly poisoning caused by silver required a little extra effort to purge and restore health.

The height at which Azkari'a was kneeling put her in awkward proximity to Farkas's groin-a fact that the male was trying very hard to ignore, his jaw tense and his eyes flat and hard as he looked deliberately away from Az. She too was blatantly attempting to disregard what was uncomfortably close to her face. Focusing instead on the weeping cut, she prodded at the sides of the wound with her fingertips, eliciting a muffled grunt from Farkas.

"Stop poking at it and just get it over with, will you?" he snarled, still avoiding all eye contact with her.

Curling her lip at his demanding tone, Az prodded a little harder at the wound. The male werewolf snarled again, finally meeting her glare with a sharp, seething stare of fiery yellow. Azkari'a flashed her fangs at him once before, breaking their stare-down and dragging her tongue up the length of the wound. Blood coated her tongue and her wolf rioted, the taste of the glistening scarlet calling to something deep and primal. She repeated the action and Farkas grunted above her, trying to cover up the discomfort.

The saliva was already starting to work, creating an almost tingly sensation along the area of the wound. Unfortunately for Farkas, he was feeling a tingly sensation in some other parts of his body as well. His wolf, already simmering just below the surface, rumbled in pleasure at the female kneeling below him, recognizing it as a sign of submission. Azkari'a, well aware of her compromising position, "accidentally" let a fang slip in her ministrations. Farkas's sharp snap of his teeth and low warning snarl sent a secret tinge of smugness shiver through her.

Satisfied that she had done enough "assistance" for one night, Azkari'a pulled away and immediately stood up, secretively licking the drops of blood from her lips. Her silver eyes burned, ignoring Farkas in general and especially the thick, temping piece of meat gradually becoming harder between his legs.

Hastily Farkas turned and threw his armor back on, struggling to pull his trousers on over his arousal. Yes, the image and feel of Azkari'a kneeling by his feet and licking along his thigh-regardless of the medicinal purpose of the action-had been quite… unfortunately erotic. His beast was right on the surface and willing to break through at the slightest slip of Farkas's control. His rational mind fought furiously against the feral part, pushing down any desire to pin the she-wolf to the stones below him and force her to submit in all ways possible. The rational part was winning.

For now.

Azkari'a, too, was blatantly ignoring him and everything to do with him, swiping the remaining blood from her face and snatching Nightbyter from the ground. Breezing past the still-struggling Farkas and stepping over bodies, she swept out of the next door and into the corridor beyond. After a moment of buckling and wrestling, Farkas followed.

They were close-Azkari'a's senses reeled with the lingering feeling of Daedric presence. Throughout the next few chambers and rotted halls, no more Silver Hand had been seen or scented-a hopeful sign for the well-being of the blade. Several more Draugr rose and confronted the pair; all were cut down almost lazily by an adrenaline-stoked she-wolf. Farkas, on the other hand, still limped slightly, and was less-than-enthusiastically fighting off the undead.

At last, the two came upon a huge, heavy door with the same ebony circle as the very first door. Daedric inscriptions tattooed the borders and circles of the doors, glowing with bloody red energy. Sliding off her gauntlet once again, Azkari'a repeated the process of unlocking the passage with her deadly claws.

The ebony circle twisted and clicked, receding back into the door. The huge, blackened steel structures swung back, revealing the chamber beyond and ultimately, the resting place of the Blade of Hircine.

The chamber was not actually a chamber, but a wide circle cut into the mountain and open to the sky. While it had seemed like the two were travelling deeper into the crypt, they had actually been going upwards-and the sky was now an inky black, flecked with bright stars and the shimmering green-blue aurora. The moons had not yet risen over the high stone cliffs, but there was a distinct silvery glow gracing the sky in the East…

What was left of the black stone floor peeked through the tall grasses, dotted with tundra cotton and nightshade. Huge stone boulders, broken off of the mountainsides and tumbled into the circle by rockslides, stuck up from the brush like rounded teeth. In the center of the circle, a high, smooth wall rose out of the landscape in a half-circle, as if cradling the pedestal below it. Azkari'a, not new to the sight, named it immediately-a Word Wall-and a dead one at that.

Silver eyes scanning the clearing for any threats, Az crept through the yawning archway of the open doors. Farkas followed, yellow eyes seemingly just smoldering embers behind her.

Her eyes missed nothing; her nose caught every scent that the slight breeze tossed her way. The runes that decorated Nightbyter's blade flashed and glowed, recognizing the presence of powerful Daedric magic.

"No one has been here in decades," Az murmured lowly, the hint of a beast's growl lying beneath her tone. "We stopped the Silver Hand just in time."

Farkas said nothing, intent on absorbing his surroundings and keeping all senses open to interpret danger.

The she-wolf strode across the clearing, grasses flattening beneath her armored boots. The only light besides the stars came from the few torches that flickered with enchanted fire, throwing shadows from their places along the rocks. Of course, Az needed no light at all, her supernatural eyesight outlining everything clearly.

She stopped when her boots met the un-damaged black stone of the dais-like platform. Runes ran along the edge of the wide circle, untouched by the foliage that grew rampant-no nature dared to cross the ancient magic. The pedestal that grew up from the dais as if carved from the same stone was also untouched, no moss or lichen gracing the glassy obsidian it was made from.

And held on said pedestal was a deadly blade honed by Hircine himself-sought after by centuries of the Daedric prince's hunters. Vaguely resembling the shape of a Daedric greatsword, the blade was made from pure obsidian stone, nearly translucent. The sleek, razor-sharp edges were enforced with a silver lining, completely untainted; deadly to any beast unfortunate enough to come into contact with it. More Daedric runes lined the silver plating, glowing with scarlet red magic like the doors and Azkari'a's own blades. The hilt was made from some otherworldly metal, black as pitch, and a large, round, red-tainted black soul gem was set into the pommel, clasped in the curved ebony claws of some great beast.

"It is here," the she-wolf breathed, lightly touching a finger to the night-black hilt. "And untainted." No outsider had come into contact with the blade in centuries.

Just then a thunderous roar shook the cliffs, rattling loose stones that went tumbling into the clearing. Overhead, sailing into view and silhouetted by the brilliant aurora, the dragon that had haunted their trip finally made its appearance.

"Azkari'a!" Farkas snapped, not willing to put up with another "fight or flight" argument. "We have a problem!"

* * *

**-Oh yes, yes I did do that. :3**

**You'll all just have to wait until the next update to find out whether or not our favorite she-wolf and her grumpy companion get turned into wolf-bacon!**

**On another note, a big thank you to all my wonderful reviewers-**

_**ArrowStriker:**_**Yes, I was tired of the "perfect Dragonborns" as well-but remember that I haven't said that Az is the Dragonborn! (Heheh…)**

_**Brotherhood of the Divines:**_**I threw the free werewolf in that chapter for exactly that purpose-I was so mad that they attack once you free them. :P and you shall have to learn to make cheesecake. I DEMAND IT. O_O**

_**Jackie Almasy: **_**Every review counts, and I thank you! **

_**ShannonTheAwesomeOne: **_**Thank you, and I quite enjoy the sexual tension myself. Tee hee.**

**And random **_**Guest: **_**Thank you. ^_^ I'm glad you like my characters.**


	9. Nestling

**-Hilo there. :3**

**This is a really, really short chapter-I'M SORRY! It's kind of like a reassurance that I have not disappeared or succeeded in taking over the world or anything. I'm hoping to continue this story for as long as my brain juices are flowing. Hopefully.**

**Thank you to all my reviewers!**

**-Cryptik**

* * *

The dragon released another ground-shaking roar, swooping low over the clearing with the powerful beats of its wings flattening the grasses. Azkari'a glanced upward, Nightbyter already clenched tight in her grip. Its twin dagger Blackfyre appeared from its sheath a moment later, runes alight as if it anticipated the taste of the blood of the massive scaly beast circling overhead.

The dragon blasted a ball of fire from between its deadly jaws, lighting the night sky with brilliant orange. The light caught the murky green scales that formed the dragon's armor, and right away Azkari'a could identify its species-a Blood dragon.

She tracked its movements in the sky, silver eyes watching the shadowy figure as it sailed among the light, wispy clouds that drifted overhead. Farkas stood ready nearby, his greatsword in hand and a fierce snarl curling his lips over extended fangs. His eyes nearly glowed with yellow fire. It seemed as though it would take very little provocation for him to shift again.

Luckily Azkari'a had more of a leash on her inner wolf, enough to concentrate fully on what she had to do. Suddenly switching tactics, she sheathed the unique dagger in favor of the razor-edged shield previously strapped to her back. Prowling through the quaking grass, she shadowed the dragon's movements, waiting for it to come in for another attack.

Her chance came rather quickly; the dragon circled around and roared, then coming to hover just above the rim of the cliffs. It pinpointed the huntress crouched in the grass, its yellow-green eyes glittering with merciless determination. Its jaws parted, revealing rows of razor sharp fangs, the back of its throat beginning to glow with the beginnings of a round of fire.

Azkari'a struck first.

"**Joor Zah Frul**!"

The shout rocked the clearing, a thunderous percussion of sound, brining glowing blue tendrils of energy to wrap around the dragon almost like chains. The dragon immediately closed its mouth, shaking its frilled head in aggravation and releasing a howling roar. Pulling up into the sky, it briefly circled until it was seemingly forced to land.

Azkari'a charged, although Farkas seemed to need a slight moment to pull out of a state of shock. The she-wolf dashed for the downed dragon, which thrashed and snarled, flattening trees and grasses with its enormous bulk. It saw Az coming, and opened its maw to charge up a volley of fire. Azkari'a, ever the seasoned warrioress, never gave it the chance. Charging shield-first, she smashed at its head with the razor edge, creating long, nasty gashes, weeping bright scarlet. The dragon recoiled, shaking its head in disorientation before retaliating with a snap in its attacker's direction.

Farkas had broken out of his momentary shock, charging up with a roar to bring his sword down on the dragon's right wing. There was a resounding snap as the support bone broke, bringing a chilling howl-roar from the scaly beast. No longer able to take off and fight aerially, it began to fight back with a vengeance.

Azkari'a finally had enough and decided to put the thing out of its misery. Seizing an opportunity, she bashed it with her shield again and leaped on top of its bleeding head. It writhed and roared, trying to shake her off, but she was not new at dragon slaying. Snarling harshly, she raised Nightbyter and plunged it downwards through the thick skull plating.

The dragon ceased its struggles and drooped to the earth.

Azkari'a gracefully dismounted as the burning began, silver eyes shining with coldness-a true predator.

The body gave into the flickering flames and was consumed, leaving nothing left but the bones. Azkari'a waited patiently, the telltale glow of white-gold energy rushing from the body and wrapping around her like a cloak.

Farkas stood, mouth gaping, his sword still clenched tightly in his hands. Azkari'a stood calmly as she was enveloped in the glow, and then continued to stare at him stoically as the tendrils of white faded into her body.

After a moment, Farkas found his voice again. "You-you're the mysterious Dragonborn? The one that everyone was talking about after that black dragon was defeated, and yet no one knew your name? You?!"

Az's gaze remained calm, almost bored. "That was I, yes. I defeated Alduin, I am Dovahkiin. Close your mouth, Farkas, or you will catch flies."

He shut it with a snap, glaring at her. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, his tone accusing.

"It did not come up or seem important."

"Yes, you're right, saving the damn world isn't important at all!"

Now her expression was one of irritation. "Enough. We could stand here until the sun rises, bickering over my right to withhold information. But I would prefer to be separate from you when the moons rise." With that, she strode back to the pedestal that held the Blade of Hircine, not willing to hear another word from the half-feral male.

Something stopped her before she lifted the blade, though-a glimmer of color from behind the Word Wall.

Abandoning the blade to Farkas's watch, she hefted her sword and crept over. When she saw what had caught her gaze, she stopped dead, astonishment in her expression, for once.

Nestled in a large, bowl-shaped depression and cushioned with grasses and leaves, an oversized egg sat and glistened with brilliant colors. It was bigger than her head, and as black as night and washed with silver-blue and pearlescent white, like the night sky above.

"What is it?" Farkas asked from behind, impatience tingeing his voice.

Azkari'a said nothing, merely held up a hand, commanding him to wait. The male werewolf growled loudly at the insistence of dominance, but stayed back begrudgingly.

The she-wolf knelt by the nest, reaching out a hand to touch the glassy smooth surface of the egg. She had never seen a dragon's egg in all her long life, but this was one without a doubt. This could only mean one thing:

"They are reproducing," she murmured, more to herself than Farkas, who caught her words nonetheless.

"Yes, isn't that what living things do?" he asked facetiously, and Azkari'a could hear him shifting with impatience.

She shook her head, still stroking the egg. "Not dragons. These dragons were brought back to life by Alduin. They are technically like vampires: dead. They should not be able to produce offspring."

Farkas scowled behind her. "So leave it alone, Azkari'a. It will just die before it can hatch without its mother."

Again Az was silent. The egg did not look like something a Blood dragon would lay… the colors were all wrong. It reminded Az more of Mirmulnir, one of the first dragons she had defeated. Frowning slightly, she reached underneath the egg and lifted it. To a mortal, it might have been considered heavy, but she hefted it up without much of a problem.

Farkas started. "What in the Nine's names are you doing?" he barked, watching her carry the egg over to the pedestal with the Blade. "That's a dragon's egg."

Azkari'a rolled her eyes, ignoring the captain of the Obvious Patrol spouting curses behind her. Holding the blade in one hand and tucking the egg under her other arm, she sheathed the wicked sword in the empty spot beside her own. Job completed, she headed back to the open doors at the edge of the clearing.


	10. In the Full Moon

**-Greetings, mortals. :3**

**I know I am again overdue for a chapter… but to make up for it, I have included a very special gift in this one for all of my loyal subjects! **

**Reviews are always appreciated. I like cookies too. They are appropriate sacrifices.**

**Shoutouts to my most recent reviewers:**

_**BloodOfAnAnimal, YolToorShul, OpalBee, We Did It For The Glory, Brotherhood of the Divines, **_**and **_**no one.**_

**-Cryptik**

* * *

Azkari'a wasted no time in getting back through the crypts. Luckily, she had found a shortcut, pulling a chain to raise a heavy stone door camouflaged in the wall. The tunnels were close and cramped on the way out, and Azkari'a's wolf side rioted against the confinement-and the male werewolf following closely behind her. They did not run into any enemies, but Az secretly wished for at least one fight to release her tension.

Farkas was clearly glowering behind her, his wolf-yellow eyes narrowed in clear distaste for the choice she had made to bring the egg along. She held in her arms the offspring of the very things they were supposed to hunt down and kill, as if it were just a simple gold coin picked up off the ground.

He couldn't wait to tell Kodlak when he returned to Jorvaskr.

That is, if they got back without killing each other.

His wolf was right under the surface, contained only by his weak human skin. His eyes would not return to their normal stormy grey-blue, and his teeth remained pointed fangs in his mouth. Just the slightest nudge would send him over the edge, and he was willing to bet anything that Azkari'a wouldn't just be the one to nudge him over; she'd shout him headfirst off a cliff.

At last, the cool night air could be felt filtering through the entrance to the crypt. Azkari'a headed straight for it, breaking free from the tunnels through another hidden door. The moons were rising, her wolf was anxious, and she needed to get away from Farkas.

She wasn't quite sure what she would do with the egg. She pondered the possibilities as she hefted it under her arm, jogging for the exit of the stingy catacombs. She needed to shift, and soon. She wouldn't chance leaving the thing with Farkas, as he'd likely smash it to bits as soon as she left. He would probably shift himself, though, and Azkari'a wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the male.

She'd leave it with Aurox, she decided. Take the horse somewhere and tie the egg to his saddlebags; the horse was loyal as a dog, and he'd stay where she left him. As long as Farkas didn't find him, the egg would be fine.

Breaking free from the chamber, finally, the night air washed her with the freshness of living things. Although the change from death-filled, old crypt air to crisp clean breezes was somewhat of a relief, it barely affected the crazed beast trying to claw its way out of Az.

She sprang for Aurox, hastily strapping the egg onto the saddlebags with loose leather straps, and vaulted onto his back while grabbing one handful of the reins. Pulling the horse's head around in a sharp turn, she urged him into a fast jog to rid herself of Farkas-who was still close behind.

"You're an idiot for taking that thing!" he yelled from his horse behind her, and Az didn't have to ask whether he meant the Blade or the egg. "It'll hatch into a monster and then what will you do with it?"

"I think it is perfectly acceptable for such a 'monster' to be raised by a monster such as I!" she roared back, "And it will be of no concern to you!"

Farkas snarled harshly. "It will be my concern when the damned thing starts burning down Whiterun!" he snapped, trying to find a way to get around her horse. "And then the Jarl will be out for your head!"

"As if you would care if that should happen," Az shot back nastily, "You would cheer and celebrate with Black-Briar mead as my head rolled across the ground!" She curled her lip as she glared at him over her shoulder, her silver eyes burning. "As if the Jarl could even get a hold of my head. You and the Companions would be as useless as dirt!"

Farkas roared. The next thing she knew, Az was torn from the saddle by a mass of black fur and muscle. Aurox ground to a halt, tossing his head in surprise and rising to a half-rear as his mistress was thrown to the ground. Luckily for Az, the egg stayed in place.

Within an instant, Azkari'a had shifted as well, and was snarling and snapping at the other werewolf. Neither bothered with fighting tactics, too far gone into animalistic instincts to care. They clawed at each other relentlessly, jaws snapping like steel traps and scarlet beginning to spatter the rocks and dirt.

Azkari'a quickly gained the upper hand, slamming Farkas onto the ground on his back by a clawed hold on his scruff. He thrashed and wildly clawed at her, twisting his body to throw her hold off. She stumbled back as he slammed his back into her, her hold loosening enough for him to break away from the clamp of her claws.

Righting himself, Farkas slammed his heavy muscled shoulder into the female wolf, driving her against the towering stone behind them. He locked eyes with her-wild yellow meeting celestial silver. Both beasts paused for a moment, held in a stare-down by their iron wills, glaring into each other's gazes as if they were trying to find the soul held inside-and tame it. Fangs glittered in the waxing moonlight, bared and sharp and deadly. Low, threatening growls rolled from both wolves' throats, daring the other to back down.

The break in conflict seemed to allow the warriors to regain some control over their animalistic sides, and they shifted back in the same instant. Farkas still had Azkari'a pressed to the steep stone, one clawed hand pressed hard into the middle of her chest, nearly crushing her collarbone. But Az had her attacker in an equally as compromising position, both hands poised to wrap around his throat and sever his jugular with razor-pointed black claws.

Az held Farkas's gaze with fiery defiance, lip curled over sharpened fangs, meeting his dominance with every ounce of her own. For her entire existence she had fought on her own, survived on her own, thrived on her own, never to be controlled by another. And she'd be damned if she let this ignorant male take that away from her.

Farkas glared at the female who held him pinned just as he held her. This defiant, irksome, arrogant, merciless female who had tested every single one of his nerves, including the ones in his pants, since the day Kodlak had first sent him out to track her down for her murders. He regretted coming on this journey more than ever, although it wasn't like he had a choice. The honorable Nord in him hated her for her crimes against his homeland. The wolf in him wanted to pin her on her belly and force her to submit, to break her into acknowledging an Alpha's command.

But she was her own Alpha.

He should just kill her-he was greatly debating it, lip curling in a snarl over white fangs. She might kill him first, with her deadly claws around his throat, but at least he'd have a fair chance of disposing of her by crushing her ribs beneath his hand.

He glared into her eyes again, meeting more silvery defiance. She would do more good dead, this dragon-saving, domineering, murderous she-wolf. His hand tightened on her chest, feeling that wide bone of her solar plexus begin to give beneath his pressure. He could just break her now; he'd rejoice in Sovngarde if she killed him as well.

So he grasped her by the scarce linens covering her breasts, dragging her towards him.

And he kissed her.

He pressed his lips against hers in a harsh, rough kiss, his sharpened teeth catching her lower lip and biting until blood flowed. Her inhale of shock and slight outrage was swallowed by his punishing mouth, and he could feel her eyes burning into him even though his were closed. He did not let up, kissing her with the flames of anger and desire lacing his lips.

And then something changed. A low, deep growl echoed in Azkari'a's chest, vibrating beneath his grasp on her underclothes. He expected her to snap, to shift and tear him to pieces. But she didn't-not even close.

Her lips became softer, more accepting of his rough kiss. Her claws still dug into his neck, so sharp they drew blood at the simplest pressure, a deadly warning. But she returned his kiss then, catching his lip as he had hers and biting it until scarlet ran. Tongues tangled in an intimate yet dangerous dance, a battle for dominance even then.

**A/N: There's a lemon coming up. If you don't like graphic descriptions of sex, don't read any further in this chapter!**

Farkas broke away first, his yellow eyes flashing open to stare down at the woman he still held in his grasp. There was anger in that silver glare, yet some primal desire running under the malice. She was unreadable other than that, her gaze the hidden path to her thoughts. She'd just kissed the very man that had caused her to lose control more than once over the past few days, the one who she had wanted-still wanted-to shred to ribbons with claws and teeth. Despite her hardened stare, she was not sure what she was feeling. Her wolf, however, snarled in the background, decidedly torn between outrage and lust.

"You arrogant, vicious, contemptuous, infuriating cock-tease of a she-wolf…" Farkas growled lowly, fire-filled eyes narrowing dangerously. "You have pressed me to every limit of my control and over it. I should kill you for the things you've put me through."

Azkari'a returned his stare with equal emotion, ice and fire clashing, cold with indifference yet burning with surfacing desire. "You could not bring yourself to kill me," she rumbled simply.

Farkas crushed his lips to hers again. She accepted him, allowing him to press her against the stone at her back, but not without digging her claws into the meat of his neck as a penalty, causing beads of crimson to streak down his shoulder and bare chest. She nipped at his lower lip, tongue tangling with his, an intimate caress with thick layers of danger and meaning underneath it. He growled and she answered, fangs brushing as their kiss turned wild. Farkas's hands strayed to the thin layer of linen covering her ample breasts, a simple brush of his claws causing a tear to begin at the top of it.

He broke their kiss, strands of blood lacing their lips. "A part of me wants to beat every ounce of that dominant attitude from you," he growled, his voice husky and deep. "But I was raised a Nord, manners and all. If I can't beat it out of you, I'll just have to fuck it out of you."

Azkari'a answered him with a primal snarl, silver eyes flashing. Her razorblade claws tracked warningly across his shoulders and down his chest, drawing raised lines of angry red. His heavy muscles twitched under her touch, instinctually recognizing the danger he was placing himself in.

"It would take a thousand years for you to fuck me into submission."

That did him in.

"I have time," he growled roughly. His own claws made short work of her linens, strips of fabric fluttering to the dirt, forgotten. He had seen her breasts before, yes, but he had been working to preserve her modesty and his control. Now, he had a clear invitation, from Az herself, and he willingly accepted.

His hands seemed to come up on their own to cup the soft mounds, mindful of his claws, and rejoined their lips in a rough kiss. His tongue curled around hers and thrust into her mouth, a low, feral groan pulled from his throat as Az sucked on the tip. Her nipples hardened into peaks beneath his thumbs, her breathing speeding up and her arching back thrusting her heavy breasts into his hands even further.

He barely noticed as she freed him of his underclothes, his heavy erection released. He did notice, however, when her hands came to grasp his impressive length and squeezed. He grunted, starting against her sharply and causing them to break from their heated kiss, blood running down their chins. Azkari'a paid his slip in control no mind, except to tighten her grip on his hard flesh even more and drag her hand up and down his length, testing him. The man growled low, bracing one hand on the stone behind the she-wolf and thrusting the other into her hair, pulling on the long raven strands. Az snarled harshly, gripping him to the point of pain and flashing her teeth at him.

Farkas loosened his hold on her despite his wolf howling at him to demand control. Az loosened hers as well, and resumed stroking him-up and down, balls to tip, her sinful fingers smearing the beads of translucent white he leaked in anticipation. Her claws stayed extended, too far gone into animalistic lust to be controlled, although she had enough of a hold on her senses to keep them away from his sensitive flesh. Roughly he palmed her heavy breasts, pinching the rosy nipples between his fingers until the she-wolf let out a strangled moan. She sounded delicious.

"Enough," Farkas growled, voice nearly hoarse with lust, wrenching himself out of her grasp. She growled warningly, silver eyes pinned on his face, lips swollen and scarlet from heated kisses.

Without answering her warning, he grabbed his throbbing shaft in his fist and pumped it hotly, holding Azkari'a's gaze the entire time. A pointed white fang poked out from beneath her lip as she watched him pleasure himself, coating his natural lubricant along his thick shaft. One of her hands snaked up to cup her breast, doing her own teasing. With the hand that was not busy around his erection, Farkas pushed his fingers between Azkari'a's golden thighs and slipped through her silken, wet folds. He groaned. She was already soaked for him.

Pushed to his limit of control, Farkas snatched Az by the hips and lifted her up, pinning her against the stone wall hard. Her long legs curled around his, her hands around his shoulders with her claws digging wickedly into his back. Staring her in the eye, fire yellow meeting silver, Farkas took his slickened shaft in his hand and shoved the entire length into her tight heat. With a long, low groan, half-animal and half-man, he watched her celestial eyes fly wide, mouth dropped open in a gasp, displaying her sharpened teeth.

The smell of fresh blood wafted past his nose, but Farkas's beast had taken control, paying no mind to the fact that the female he was currently prepared to dominate had been a virgin.

Azkari'a, too, was too lost in her wolf to acknowledge the slight pain that had come with Farkas's rough penetration of her body, only noticing the way he invaded her and stretched her tight walls around his thick shaft. He thrust in the last inch, stuffing her full of his manhood, and a long moan tore from her parted lips.

"Holy fuck," Farkas swore, his mouth pressed against Az's neck, fangs dangerously close to her throat as he struggled to maintain control over his senses. It was extremely hard to do, given the fact that with the slightest movement, the she-wolf clamped around his shaft like a hot velvet vise. He needed, needed friction, but the sliver of humanity left in him told him that she was so tight, moving right now would hurt her. He dragged his tongue up the side of her neck, catching her earlobe in his teeth and biting down slightly.

Azkari'a, however, didn't give a damn about being hurt by his roughness. She made that decision for him-and gave him no warning other than a growl before she parted her lips and sank her fangs into his neck.

The male werewolf snarled sharply, permeated by a lustful groan as he felt her teeth tear the flesh and the hot scarlet blood began to run. She was still very much in control of the situation, her wolf vying for dominance over his, and biting was just the way to show that.

With a curl of his lip he dug his claws into her hips, tearing the soft golden skin. He withdrew almost completely from her core, only to thrust roughly back into her with a slap of flesh. Her resulting moan tore her mouth from his neck, rivulets of blood snaking out over her lips as she tossed her head back. He repeated the action, drawing out before thrusting back in, his tip hitting the very limits of her channel. She echoed him with another moan, low and lustful, and he was quickly becoming addicted to that sound. He had no trouble setting the pace, throwing them both into a rough fuck coated with blood and the sounds of their beasts.

Burning yellow eyes locked on the expanse of Az's neck in front of him, her head tossed back in pleasure as he pounded into her. Farkas's fangs glinted in the swollen moonlight, his lips curling back from the natural blades. His wolf wanted to return her little 'gift,' not likely to forget the crescent wound weeping crimson on the slope of his own neck. Not even missing a thrust, he closed his mouth over her neck and sank his fangs into her.

Her answer was a lilting howl combined with a moan, her hips grinding against his in a craze of desire. Ripples of pleasure shuddered through her with each of Farkas's powerful, rough thrusts into her, fueling the hot coil building in her lower abdomen. He released her neck, his tongue dragging across the wound to catch the leaking crimson, sending another searing flash through her.

Farkas, too, was feeling his control lessen, the hot pulse of Az's tightness around him pushing him to the edge of pleasure. The Nine would curse him for fucking a murderer, but at the moment, he did not care. He was too far lost to the wolf to care. He only cared about the female held captive in his arms and the feeling of her tight sheath squeezing his shaft like her fist had done, minutes before.

Standing on the edge of a precipice, Farkas crushed his lips to hers once more, swallowing her heated moans and tasting their blood on her tongue. He shoved himself inside her to the hilt, repeating the action once, twice, three times before he felt her body tense against his and her cries of pleasure go up an octave. Her orgasm swept through them both, her body squeezing and milking his own, until he too came with a strangled groan, spilling himself inside her.

They stayed like that for moments afterwards, feeling tiny orgasmic aftershocks causing Az to quiver around Farkas's shaft still buried inside her. Her hands were tangled in his long wild hair, his nose resting on her collarbone and her chin on top of his head. Little quiet growls were rumbling through her chest, although if they were a warning or a sound of contentment, Farkas did not know. Gradually he loosened his hold on her hips enough for her to slip down from where he had pinned her up against the rock, slowly slipping from her still-pulsing warmth. The action brought a low groan from both of them, relinquishing their tight holds on one another so they could slip to the dirt at their feet.

Their rough round of crazed sex had worn both human and beast out in both of them, and sleep tugged at them invitingly. So that's where they stayed, slumped in the grass and dirt at the side of the mountain path, naked and sweaty and covered in each other's blood. Azkari'a slipped into sleep first, curling into Farkas involuntarily, perhaps seeking warmth. He stayed awake for a few moments, gazing absently at the woman he had just roughly fucked against a mountain, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Both slept knowing full well that things would not be the same come morning.

* * *

**-Ah hah hah hah… Yesh…**

**That was a pain to write. Rough sex scenes are not my forte… I was also playing Closer by Nine Inch Nails in the background, so it might have come off rougher than I intended. xD**

**Tell me what you think! I DEMAND IT.**

**I love you. :3**


	11. The Wild Hunt

**Tah dahhhh... another filler chapter. :|**

**I promise, the next chapter will be MUCH longer and more exciting... If not, may I be hit by a flying ice cream truck... AND LIVE! O_O**

**Thank you to all who review-you guys keep this story going. :3**

**-Insertdisclaimerhere- (seriously, I keep forgetting to do that...)**

**-Cryptika**

* * *

Azkari'a awoke with the moons at her back and the dirt cold beneath her. Dazed and confused, she raised her head from the warm surface she'd been resting on, putting a hand to her forehead. She felt slightly sore, in places she'd never felt sore before. _What in Talos's name…_

Glancing up, she got her answer.

Farkas, still deep in slumber and growling lowly in his sleep, had been her pillow for the past… however long she'd been asleep. His arm was draped loosely over her, his hand on the curve of her waist. And he was naked.

Started violently out of her daze, Az glanced at herself. Farkas wasn't the only one who was naked.

_Damn everything to Oblivion! _They'd had sex! And from the way she was throbbing in every tender place, it had been _rough _sex. Az ran a clawed hand over her face in angry exasperation. It should never have happened-they'd both been lost to their beasts and neither had been thinking strait.

With her fury resurfacing, Azkari'a tore herself away from the man beneath her. He didn't stir. She snarled harshly, turning from him and darting away, a howl ripping from her throat as she allowed the change to take her and the night to swallow her up.

* * *

Farkas was startled awake by a howl that tore through the darkness like a blade. The moons were still hanging above the world, two full glowing spheres masked only by the aurora borealis that glimmered and twisted far above.

The Nord frowned. Where was Azkari'a? He'd distinctly remembered a warm, feminine body curled against his after their rough round of angry sex. _That _part he remembered distinctly, too. How could he forget? The woman was a succubus in wolf's skin.

It was wrong, he knew. Neither one of them had been in their right minds. Anger slid through him, hot and familiar, as he chided himself for his loss of control. He'd fucked a murderer that night. He'd _enjoyed _it. His honorable Nord blood burned in his veins-he'd brought shame upon that honor, and he'd never forgive himself.

But where was she? His brow furrowed as he thought… _That howl… _Could the moons still have a hold on Azkari'a, even though it had seemed that he'd fucked all the untamed wildness out of her just hours ago? Talos only knew what she was capable of, under the influence of her beast. Farkas himself was proof-sitting there in the dirt wearing nothing but his skin.

He scrambled up, steadying himself against the rock as the world tilted around him. Glancing around, he saw that thankfully, his horse was only a little way down the mountain. He had a lighter set of armor stashed away in his saddlebags, so he wouldn't have to ride out naked. _That_ would surely cause questions to arise-and not questions he'd like to answer.

Hastily tugging his armor on, he mounted his horse and began the descent down the mountain. Azkari'a's stallion was nowhere in sight, and neither was that damned egg. Swearing to himself for letting the dangerous female out of his sight, Farkas headed back home to Whiterun.

* * *

It was quite difficult to come up with how he would phrase his report to Kodlak- that's what was currently occupying Farkas's mind so fully that he didn't even hear Aela call his name in greeting when he returned to Jorvaskr.

He didn't have the blade with him. He didn't have the one who was supposed to retrieve the blade with him. He had literally walked back into Jorvaskr with _less _than he had left with in the first place.

And not only that, but he hadn't seen hide nor tail of Azkari'a-or that damned egg-since that night. What in the names of the Nine was he supposed to tell the Harbinger?

He breezed right past Vilkas as he entered the living quarters, seeking out Kodlak's room with a grim expression. The old man was sitting at his usual table, reading an old tome with a tankard of mead in one hand and the other hand on the worn pages of the book. He looked up as Farkas approached.

"Well, my brother, you seem to be lacking something-or should I say, some_one," _Kodlak noticed, making Farkas's scowl deepen.

"Azkari'a ran off with the Blade after we left the crypt," Farkas grumbled, easily omitting the part about their animalistic tryst on the mountain path. "I have not seen her since."

Kodlak raised one thick grey eyebrow. "I believe I can offer some insight as to where your missing she-wolf is," he said, a grim undertone to his voice. "Winterhold was attacked, early this morning, before the sun even rose."

A choking noise came from Farkas's throat as he realized the insinuation behind the Harbinger's words. "Azkari'a?" he dared to ask, his lip curling already. The she-wolf had made a promise not to attack any more towns-hadn't she? If she had broken it, it would be the Companion's responsibility to hunt her down and destroy her. She may have easily overtaken Farkas alone, but could she so easily stand against all of his brothers and sisters together?

"I fear so," Kodlak answered, shaking his head. "But I am hoping another is following her footsteps and her disappearance is merely a coincidence. I've sent Skjor and Ria out to Winterhold to either confirm or deny my suspicions. They should return by tomorrow or send word with a courier."

Farkas scowled even more. "Then we have to wait around while Azkari'a has a chance to flee Skyrim and her punishment."

"Calm down, Farkas. Do not place blame on her shoulders without proper proof."

The younger Nord fell silent, but the angry frown did not fade from his handsome face.

"Fine," was all he said before he turned and strode out.

* * *

The next day, Skjor and Ria arrived back in Jorvaskr with grim news. Although the death toll in Winterhold was much less than the previous towns-at 4 casualties-Azkari'a's scent laced the ruins of the once-great city.

The sentence had barely gotten out before Farkas was out the door, buckling his greatsword to his back and thundering angrily down the stone steps.

He was going to track down Azkari'a even if he had to wander across the entirety of Skyrim, even if it was in his underwear, in a blinding snowstorm, chased by bears. The she-wolf had wracked Skyrim with terror, and he was going to stand for it no longer. His homeland had enough to worry about, with the threat of the Stormcloaks and recovering from the wrath of Alduin the World-Eater.

He grabbed his horse from the stables on the way out of Whiterun, mounting up in one fluid movement and galloping out of the streets.

* * *

Night rose and fell, and Farkas had crossed from Whiterun to Winterhold and across the mountains to Windhelm in his search for Azkari'a. Winterhold had looked much the same as it always had, the buildings outside of the college a crumbling mess of stone and wood. However, the somber feeling of death still lingered in the air and in the faces of the residents, and Azkari'a's scent was still faintly scattered here and there. She smelled of beast and blood.

Now Farkas wandered the dark streets of Windhelm, wrapped in a thick fur cloak to guard against the bitter cold that seemed to be ever-present in the city. Truly, he hated Windhelm-it was dark and dreary and everyone seemed to hate each other. Night was falling, though, and he was tired of sleeping in a cramped tent, so he bought a room in Candlehearth Hall. The hall was one beacon of warmth in the desolate city, glowing with golden light in the middle of the whirling snow outside and blanketed in comfortable heat on the inside.

Farkas sat at the table in his small but cozy room, picking aimlessly at a piece of salted beef he'd bought from the steward. He stared at the flickering flames of the candles on the table, lost in thought.

He hadn't seen or smelled or heard a single trace of Azkari'a on his search, besides the lingering scent in Winterhold. He'd lost the trail across the tundra, carried away by snow and wind. He'd set of in the direction it had pointed in, and ended up in Windhelm… but there was still no trace of the renegade she-wolf. The citizens he'd asked had been no help-the only instance of a werewolf attack had been months ago, ending in the death of the blacksmith's assistant.

His next destination was Riften-which he'd head to come morning. After that he would cross to Ivarstead and then skirt the mountains to Falkreath. Then he'd travel to Markarth and Dragon's Bridge, and then Solitude and Dawnstar. If he hadn't found her by then, he figured he'd head home to Whiterun until he got another lead of Azkari'a's rampage.

He'd gladly cross the entirety of Skyrim to put an end to her terror.

The werewolf frowned. What had Az said, just before they'd fucked on the side of that mountain? _As if you could bring yourself to kill me… _He had enough of a mind to, sure. But… Could he bring a blade down on her neck? Run her heart through with silver? Farkas rubbed the side of his neck, against the slope to his shoulder where a silvery crescent-shaped scar graced his skin. Somewhere, buried deep inside him, did he feel a connection to the she-wolf? They'd shared something primal-even if it had been an animalistic coupling in the dirt on a mountain. Could he bring himself to kill Azkari'a, with those memories in his head? Even now, even with the determination to track her down and punish her, thinking of that night made his shaft harden in his pants. The feeling of her tightness squeezing him, enveloping him in warmth and wetness… He grunted, shifting to ease his uncomfortable erection. How was he supposed to focus on his task with every other thought making him hard?

Not wanting to bother with his too-active mind any longer, Farkas climbed into the fur-laden bed and waited for sleep.

* * *

**I really don't like Windhelm-that opinion of Farkas's reflects my own. :| It's so...depressing. Not someplace I would like to include in my world domination, that's for sure.**

**I know this is kind of a filler chapter, but at least it's something! I'm beta-reading for MeNoukie now, (and if you like Final Fantasy, you should check out her story Shinra Ties. It's AHMAYZIN,) and somehow that inspired me to get a chapter done. **

**Reviews are always loved-seriously, they're what keep me writing. You guys' encouragement lets me know that this story is worth writing! Thanks to all of you who have reviewed-when I take over the world, I shall name a Free Cookie Day in your honor. :D**


	12. Hideaway

**Hai! Seriously it took me like two weeks to write this chapter, and even then I was just kind of puking onto paper. Keyboard. Screen. Whatever.**

**BUT I wouldn't say it's a filler chapter! You'll see why later. Or not. I hold your fate in my hands. Heheh. :3**

**Enjoy and review~**

**-Cryptika**

* * *

Farkas had always loved the scenery outside of Riften, and mused about how it contrasted with the stark inside of the city. The trees held their brilliant orange and red leaves aloft to the blue sky, sometimes cloaked in a light fog. The land was laced with running brooks, winding in between the rocky outcroppings here and there and the trunks of the pines and birches. The ground was blanketed in fallen leaves, a carpet of red, orange and yellow fading to brown underneath. Bear were plentiful in the wilds outside Riften, but Farkas usually had no trouble avoiding them when he was on horseback. A dragon once roamed the skies around the city, perhaps having holed up in a nearby cave, but no one had seen it in months.

Farkas halted his horse at the stables just outside the city walls, paying the stable master a few coins to keep the gelding for the day. The guards at the gate let him pass-he and his shield-siblings often roamed the area on hunts. He strode through the opened gates with determination set into his features, and set about navigating the elevated streets of the city. Truly, Riften had a unique sort of beauty, with its old stone and wooden buildings and the faint splotches of color from the piles of leaves that had been shed onto the streets. The faint smell of apples and Black-Briar mead accompanied the soft rushing sound of the river far below the upper streets. At mid-day, the sun was high in the sky and the marketplace was full of merchants and prospective buyers. A bard's music wafted softly from the Bee and Barb and, across the city on the steps of the Keep, Farkas spotted Maven Black-Briar standing in the sun, her usual scowl in place on her face.

As he walked past the gates, he saw Maul slip out of the shadows to his left.

"What business do the Companions have in Riften?" he asked, his deep, gruff voice sounding as intimidating as usual.

"Searching for a rogue," Farkas replied, not stopping to meet the bodyguard's prying gaze. "And it's just me, not the whole guild. I don't suppose you've seen a black-haired Nord woman around-silver eyes; hard to miss."

Maul shook his head and made a grunting noise of dismissal, even though Farkas had already moved on towards the market.

He questioned Keerava, who was sweeping the front of the inn. When she came up empty of information, he moved on to the blacksmith, and then into the merchant's circle. A Nord man with fiery red hair and a distinctive accent was selling some kind of potions, enticing the crowd with promises of immortality and longevity. Farkas barely remembered that this man was named Brynjolf, and strode over to ask him about his wanted she-wolf.

"Welcome, lad! Can I interest you in a bottle of this powerful liquid miracle?" Brynjolf asked, holding out a red vial of the stuff-of which Farkas sincerely doubted its authenticity.

He shook his head, habitually sizing the man up-a common werewolf habit. Brynjolf was slightly taller than Farkas, although Farkas had more muscle. He smelled human, and there seemed to be no trace of any beast lurking behind the Nord's green eyes. His beard was neatly trimmed and his shoulder-length hair tidily kept, and he wore the fine clothes of the high class. Who was this man, exactly?

"I'm looking for someone, actually," Farkas began, "A black-haired Nord woman. She is pretty hard to miss. Her eyes are silver."

Brynjolf squinted at him slightly. "Can't say I've seen a lass like that," he replied, his use of _lass _accentuating his accent. "Is she one of the Companions?" he asked, probably recognizing the insignia on Farkas's armor.

Farkas scowled. "Not anymore," he growled, turning to go. "Just keep an eye out for her. She's wanted."

Brynjolf watched him go, his brow furrowing in suspicion.

* * *

The red-haired Nord strode through the Ragged Flagon, nonchalance in his stride even though he felt slightly more urgent inside. He nodded to Dirge and Delvin-who had his ubiquitous tankard of ale in hand-and headed for the back. The usual grunge of the Ratway lessened as he passed through the secret door, and then disappeared once he was through the door to the Cistern.

The insignia of the Thieves Guild blazed high above him on the purple flags, waving in the breeze that wafted in from the opening at the apex of the domed ceiling of the underground hideaway. The rushing of the water welcomed him, as did the greetings of his fellow thieves.

"Welcome back, Bryn," Rune called from where he sat on the edge of the stone walk with his feet in the water.

"Good day I hope, Brynjolf," Viper yelled in greeting from where he was shooting arrows at the targets suspended over the water in the far side of the Cistern.

Bryn acknowledged both of them with a nod and a friendly wave, but kept on his track to the Guild Master's quarters. The door was closed, a candle burning outside of it to illuminate the gloomy alcove, where the light from the main part of the Cistern couldn't reach.

The door swung open as he knocked, so he figured that he was welcome.

"Someone was looking for you," Brynjolf said as he entered. Silver eyes met his over the top of an unrolled scroll.

"I am not surprised." She rolled up her scroll and placed it down with the others-a mound of paperwork that had gone far too long undone. "Someone from the Companions, I assume?"

Bryn nodded.

"What did he say?"

"That you're wanted, lass."

Azkari'a rolled her silvery eyes. "I was doing my job, Bryn," she said, "Surely you know about being wanted."

Brynjolf huffed. "We're in a different line of work, you and I," he stated. "I'm a thief, and you're a thief, but you're…more than just that."

The she-wolf raised a perfect brow at him, scrutinizing his choice of words. "I can assure you that I had no choice in accepting my position," she replied, not unkindly. "And I do not mean the position of Guild Master."

The red-haired man shook his head. "I know, lass. You earned this title rightfully, after exposing Mercer's filthy plots and deceit." He paced around the small room until he finally settled on sitting at the edge of Az's bed. "But you're like a one-woman Dark Brotherhood, Az. You kill so many people…"

Azkari'a rose from her desk and sat down beside Bryn, moving aside a pile of furs. "I _am _a one-woman Dark Brotherhood, Brynjolf," she said simply, catching the gaze of her long-time friend with her own. "I am told to kill those people because they did something they need to atone for, and so I go out and kill them. I have no choice; I was _born _into it." Her silver eyes softened. "I am sorry it cannot be different, Bryn. I appreciate that you all have accepted me here despite what I do, but I cannot change. You know that."

Bryn's forest green eyes searched hers. Finally he sighed. "I know," he conceded. "Sometimes I just wonder, though." He pulled in a long breath through his nose, running a hand through his long flame-colored hair. Then he turned back to Azkari'a, his mood a bit lighter. "So who was the man that came looking for you, eh, lass?"

Az's expression darkened immediately, all memories of Farkas returning to her in a rush of bitterness. She remained silent, stewing in her anger, reluctant to answer Brynjolf's question. He noticed her hesitation and ran his fingertips comfortingly over her back.

"Past troubles, I assume? You can talk to me, Az; you know that," he said encouragingly. He was no stranger to Azkari'a's cold, steely exterior that surfaced whenever she was around anyone she didn't know on a highly personal level, or when she just didn't want to talk.

The she-wolf sighed. "I suppose you could say that," she began, glaring at nothing in particular. "That was Farkas: a thorn in my side that I cannot seem to remove. He went with me on the quest to retrieve the Blade, as an order from the Harbinger to teach us to coexist. It failed miserably, of course, although we succeeded in finding the Blade." Here she nodded towards the ancient sword sitting on her desk, its rune-emblazoned blade hidden in its sheath.

"I take it he didn't exactly appreciate your little friend either?" Brynjolf asked, gesturing to the egg, which was now wrapped in blankets close by the blazing fireplace.

Azkari'a shook her head. "He wished to destroy it," she stated bitterly. "He fought me the entire journey, and it only got worse when I assumed possession of the egg. We recovered the Blade and escaped the crypt quite easily, but… The moons were full, we were lost to our beasts… it never should have happened…" Azkari'a trailed off, anger clouding her beautiful features even more as her memories consumed her mind.

Brynjolf watched her become lost in her resentful thoughts and rubbed her back again soothingly. "I understand if you don't want to continue, lass. You know I'll keep him and all the others off your trail. You're always welcome in your Guild." He offered her a rare smile and stood up. "I'm going to the Flagon to have a drink with Delvin. I'll buy you an ale, if you'd like to come along."

Azkari'a shook her head. "There is far too much paperwork that has been far too long undone," she said, brow still furrowed in thought.

Bryn nodded in consent and left her to her work, closing the door behind him as he went.

Azkari'a resumed her position at her desk, her fingertips tracing the intricate Daedric runes and silver-black engravings that laced the sheath of the Blade. So much had come out of the quest for that sword, much of it unwanted. The she-wolf wished furtively to erase the memories of that animalistic night on the side of the mountain path-they were shards of glass in festering wounds inflicted on her mind. Eventually, they would heal, but leave lingering scars to forever remind her of a night she would eternally regret.

Talking to Brynjolf had been somewhat…relieving, as he was one of the few people that she was truly comfortable around. The same went for the rest of her thieves, especially Rune and Sapphire and Vipir, who had taken to her presence in the Guild rather quickly despite her intimidating demeanor. But Brynjolf had proved to be an irreplaceable friend, guiding her into the Guild as her mentor and then later as her advisor when she ascended the ranks to Guild Master after Mercer had been disposed of. The flame-haired Nord offered her sanctuary within the Cistern to escape her recent memories-and the consequences she knew would follow-without so much as a single question. For that she was grateful, and she had planned to stay within the Cistern until something happened with the egg. An underground thieves' hideaway was no place to raise a dragon.

Az glanced over at said egg, nestled in front of the fire. Truly she had no idea whatsoever of dragon young, as none had been seen in Skyrim in centuries. She did know, however, that they did not emerge as bloodthirsty, village-ravaging monsters, such as Farkas had accused. It would be but a fledgling, an innocent baby that could be easily influenced by her power.

It was an opportunity that no true Dragonborn could pass up.

She unrolled the scroll she had been previously reading-a ledger of the thieves' recent monetary gains. Her thoughts weren't exactly in her work, though. She had far too much occupying her mind to really focus on the letters and numbers swarming in her line of sight. She had been gone from the Guild far too long, she knew, and everything was behind. Brynjolf had led the Guild in her absence, and he managed quite well, of course, but there were things that he just could not do on his own. And now she was making up for it-or attempting to.

Shaking her head, she forced the distracting thoughts from her mind so she could concentrate.

* * *

A light knock on her door, hours later, announced Bryn's arrival at Azkari'a's chambers once again. He carried a plate of salted beef and a half-loaf of bread, along with a tankard of sweet-smelling mead.

"Still working, lass?" he asked as he spotted the she-wolf buried behind a mound of scrolls and papers. "You should take a break; you'll never get anything done if you're exhausted."

Azkari'a cast her silver eyes up from her papers to meet his gaze. "I am a werewolf, Bryn. We do not need as much sleep as you mortals."

"Still, it can't be healthy to work this hard."

The Nord woman rolled her shoulders dismissively. Buried in ledgers, payment statements, and job requests, she hadn't taken much notice of her surroundings, or the time, for that matter. By the sight of the food in Bryn's hands, she must have missed a meal. Or two.

"I apologize," she said as he set the plate down on a scarce bare spot on her desk. "I did not realize how late it is."

Brynjolf shrugged, offering her another one of his rare smiles. "No worries, lass. You've been gone quite a while, and I know I haven't kept up with the paperwork around here." His smile turned mischievous. "I prefer the work that doesn't involve paper."

Azkari'a rolled her eyes, but a slight smile tugged at her lips nonetheless. She had missed her days of slinking through the streets of a hold, melting into the shadows and slipping valuables out of the pockets of unwary citizens. She was the best thief in the Guild-obviously-and one of Nocturnal's honored Nightingales. Unfortunately for her, her servitude to the mistress of stealth did not free her from the master of the hunt.

"How have you been, Brynjolf?" Azkari'a asked suddenly, as it had occurred to her all of a sudden that she had not yet asked him.

The man reached for a scroll that had rolled off of the desk. "Same as always," he answered, "Keeping the Guild in line and bringing in the gold, along with wondering where you could have possibly run off to." He winked at her jokingly. "The boys were missing the presence of a beautiful lady in the Cistern."

Azkari'a chuckled, sitting back in her chair. "And what about Sapphire and Vex and Tonilia? Do they not suffice?"

Brynjolf smirked. "You far surpass their beauty, lass."

Azkari'a softened, closing her eyes and relaxing, for once. "Thank you, Bryn," she said simply. "Such is the beauty of a killer."

The Nord man frowned, brow furrowing. "Not a killer by choice," he murmured, catching her silver stare as her eyes opened at his statement.

He was the only one who truly understood her life.

"A killer nonetheless," she said softly, holding his gaze. He resumed his earlier place on her fur-laden bed.

Brynjolf shook his head. "You see, lass, nobody sees killing the same way as everyone else. Those Stormcloaks out there, they believe they're fighting and killing for the right cause. They think _they're _in the right. And the Imperial legion, they think they're fighting and killing for the right cause as well." He gestured around him to nothing in particular. "So who is truly _right?_ Both sides are killing for their own causes; causes they believe are right."

Azkari'a sat in silence. Brynjolf had a very good point; one that she could relate to. The people she killed… they had all done something wrong, in the eyes of Hircine. Did hunting them down make her _right? _Everyone else saw it as wrong, as murder. Was _either_ side truly right?

"I suppose," she conceded, casting her eyes down towards the ancient, powerful sword that sat on her desk. Such a blade could wipe out every werewolf in Skyrim and beyond, a deed that most would consider _right, _including the Silver Hand. But her kind would fight back…

Brynjolf smiled gently. "Stop thinking so hard, Az. You're too beautiful to look so distraught."

Azkari'a's gaze lifted to him, doing her best to smooth the tension from her face. "Thank you, Bryn," she said for the second time that night.

He nodded to her with a smile, rising from her bed and leaving her to her dinner.

* * *

**Hmmm... What to do, what to do...**

**Such is the challenge (and power) of a writer. :3**


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